Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Oi, isn’t she a beauty, padre? I bet Lady Liberty is a sight for many a sore eye here, yourself included.”

Father Francisco Garupe gave the sailor next to him a nod in response. His silence came not from a language barrier, for he understood and spoke four current tongues and one dead one with fluency, but a desire to vocalize only the positive. He wouldn’t deny the majesty of the large statue welcoming them into sanctuary. He didn’t necessarily want it for himself.

Given the choice, he’d gladly remain on the RMS Arcadia for its return trip. It no doubt meant a circuitous journey back to Bilbao from whichever English port the ship docked, but Garupe believed he belonged somewhere else. The sooner he reached his original destination for the mission assigned to him the better, even if it took months or longer.

His companion, standing beside him at the rail of the ship’s bow, suggested earlier that the Holy Spirit must have determined this lengthy detour for good reason. Garupe, upon learning of the sailor’s inclination toward agnosticism, shook his head and kept quiet. Rather odd statement, one Garupe accepted as a gesture of comfort.

For the time being, he stayed to the path of least resistance–silence–and deboarded to meet his American hosts, once he cleared the initial health exam and registration to enter the country. Though he considered himself the least of his “brethren,” he was grateful to receive the apparent preferential treatment offered to men of the cloth. His collar and cassock, all that survived with him when the German U-boat torpedoed the Misericórdia, granted him expedition.

“Name?” barked a gruff, barrel-chested man with shiny buttons down his uniform jacket.

He spoke each word slowly, prepared to spell out his name if necessary. “Father Francisco Garupe, Society of Jesus.”

Scribble. Scratch. Stamp. Point to the exit. Garupe entered the United States with a card identifying him as Frank Group. When the party from the diocese approached to collect him, he asked in halting English, “This is not my name. How do I correct this?”

The oldest of the trio, a ruddy-faced priest introduced as Father O’Shea, answered, “Let’s get you settled first.”

Settled. It sounded to Garupe’s ears like retirement. He was not an old man.

With that pleasant dismissal of Garupe’s concern the path extended, beginning with a carriage ride to a railway station. There, Garupe joined his hosts for the first leg of an overnight trek to the refuge reserved for him, and for lengthy conversation.

Neither of which he really wanted. 

“Eu quero ir para casa,” he said in his native language.

“Beg pardon, Garupe?” asked Father O’Shea.

Garupe shook his head. O’Shea gave a grim nod and another attempt at cheer. “You are blessed to have survived that senseless attack on your mission ship, Garupe.”

“I am.” Am I? The man best dare not call his presence in America a miracle of God.

O’Shea flicked his gaze out the window at the passing scenery. “Unfathomable that anyone would fire upon a ship with the name Mercy, carrying a missionary priest. I must admit, when we received the message from the Arcadia’s wireless that they’d rescued a lone man, a Jesuit, in a lifeboat in the middle of the ocean, well,” a hollow chuckle followed, “we surmised it must have been His doing.”

There it was. Garupe masked his frustration and kept his gaze on his shoes.

“Yes.” Why, though? Were the deaths of the Misericórdia’s crew and other passengers “His doing” as well? Garupe pondered the machinations of a divine power permitting the demise of nearly a hundred souls sailing from Bilbao to São Miguel Island.

Why would He not allow Garupe to deliver the aid entrusted to him?

Why would He leave only Garupe to survive a torpedo to the Misericórdia’s hull?

Why would He have the crew of the Arcadia pull his emaciated body from a leaking lifeboat, only to sail him further from his goal? All the way to North America to a refuge house with nothing to do but sit and pray?

Garupe prayed often, but the people of São Miguel Island required his succor. Hands-on aid, and the Word…though now he questioned the truth of it. He failed to understand why the Arcadia ’s captain couldn’t alter the ship’s course and–

“What’s that, Garupe?”

Was he muttering again? Garupe blinked awake from his musings and offered his host a smile of apology. “Forgive my neglect, Father.”

O’Shea harrumphed. “I asked if you spoke Russian.”

“I do not.”

“Pity,” said O’Shea, without further explanation. Garupe, seated, on the aisle of the locomotive’s passenger car, watched their progress through other windows.

Eu quero ir para casa, he thought. 

I want to go home. 

More than that, he wanted to understand this unexpected path he was forced to travel.

~*~

Three months into his residency, and the housekeeper still confused his middling mastery of the English language with an inability to hear. Nina greeted him in the kitchen with her long, dark hair gathered under a white kerchief, speaking in a voice designed to cut glass.

“Good morning, Mr. Levin!” She enunciated every syllable as well. “I am preparing soft boiled eggs and toast for your breakfast. Have a seat and I’ll pour your tea.”

Konstantin Levin–exhausted despite eight hours of sleep, far from his place of birth–winced and hoped young Nina attributed his discomfort to the bright, incoming sunlight aimed for his eyes. This day, much like the last ninety or so spent here, promised little variety in routine and he therefore saw no reason to show any enthusiasm. He’d dressed, he’d groomed his hair and beard, and he smiled his appreciation when served. That was enough for now.

Every morning, breakfast. Every afternoon, a book in the sitting room or garden. Every evening, dinner. A drink before bed, if he was lucky to discover one of Father O’Shea’s hiding places throughout the house before Nina. She spotted a decanter, she drained the contents in the grass.

Today he craved deviation from the norm. Perhaps, he thought, he ought to use the handle of his spoon rather than the back of the bowl to crack open his egg. Experiment. See if Nina noticed.

She chatted gaily while at the sink, her back to him, dipping plates into the filled water basin. “I’ll be changing out your sheets today for the wash,” she was saying. “With the new arrival due today, it’s only fair you each have fresh bedding for sleeping on.”

Konstantin blinked, unsure he heard correctly despite his fair grasp on her words. Another person staying here? He ought to have expected company sooner or later, but in his time in the house no other people had come through, Russian or otherwise. Thrown by the news, he ended up tapping his soft-boiled egg with the curved end of the spoon a bit harder than intended. Bits of eggshell fell into his liquid yolk.

Nina turned in place, as though believing he understood better if he saw her mouth shape the words. “A priest from Portugal,” she was saying. “He was sailing to a mission on an island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean when the Germans destroyed the boat. He was the only one to survive. They pulled him off a raft. Had nothing with him but the clothes on his back. Can you imagine?”

“Da.” Imagine? He’d lived it himself. Once an aristocrat, with land and money and a loving family, Konstantin had watched it all disappear. Had he the foresight to flee Russia at the first hints of unrest, he might have come here with much more than the one carpet bag and the heavy fur with multiple trinkets sewn into the lining. He’d gladly trade every last bauble to have his wife and son back.

A torpedo aimed for the boat that brought him to his country? It would have been a blessing. 

Levin pushed away his plate, his appetite gone.

“I don’t know how long he’ll stay here,” Nina continued. “I don’t know of a parish in the area with many Portuguese. Of course, if he speaks Spanish it might be easier to find him a church. Maybe not in this diocese but back in New York, or Florida.”

Konstantin half-listened, grunting his acknowledgement during lulls in her monologue. For lack of anything else to do, he quickly forced down breakfast, then excused himself despite his curiosity about his new housemate. Let the softer-voiced Father O’Shea, or the Portuguese priest himself, provide the information.

The diocese used the two-story cottage in which he stayed to temporarily house refugees and others in need. Konstantin learned that a parishioner bequeathed it for such a purpose. Visitors typically stayed a month, but the priests viewed Levin’s case with more compassion and left his residence open-ended. While he was not Catholic, he found sponsorship via relatives of friends, the Oblonskys, who converted from the Orthodox faith. They hoped to host him in Chicago once they were completely settled themselves. 

In Konstantin’s mind, it likely meant long hours in a shop or labor yard, and a curtain to separate his sliver of sleeping floor in a large room accommodating many more like him. Every day, until he died. Probably alone.

The annoyances Nina brought with her daily presence aside, he wasn’t in any hurry to leave. The addition of a second guest, though, threatened to cramp an already small space. He rather liked having run of the sitting room, the back garden and the downstairs clawfoot tub. Some days, after Nina returned to her own home, he liked to close his eyes and imagine young Mitya’s babbling and Kitty’s laughter filling the silence.

Temporary, it was, like everything else. He found it hurt less when he resisted the temptation to call up memories.

Hand in his vest pocket to retrieve matches, Konstantin stepped outside for a cigarette. If this priest frowned upon such vices, he wanted to enjoy one in peace.

~*~

Father O’Shea turned the horses off the main tree-lined road down a narrower path leading to a lush clearing dotted with flowering shrubs in the foreground of a modest two-story cottage. A new visitor might first have noticed the sharp slope of the gabled roof, or the contrast of the stark white window frames surrounded by russet brown bricks. The flora, too, commanded attention. Sprays of bright yellows and pinks gave cheer to the secluded and quiet property. Garupe imagined many a temporary resident, as O’Shea had explained the purpose of the house during their journey, enjoyed meditating in the fragrant splendor.

The home, the landscaping, the clear and cloudless sky fell behind the first sight catching Garupe’s weary eyes, that of the handsome ginger-haired man pacing the stone path leading to the front door. He was dressed simply, in dark trousers with suspenders over an off-white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He walked slowly with his gaze directed downward, a cigarette pinched between two fingers of his right hand. The left, he lifted to scratch his bearded chin; Garupe guessed more for relief than contemplation.

“That will be Konstantin Levin,” O’Shea said over the clopping of the horses’ hooves. “Among the first wave of Russian elite seeking asylum. Sad business, that. Lost everything in an uprising, barely managed to get himself out.”

Garupe watched the man’s hunched posture and the manner in which he raised his head to peer from under his brow at their approach. This Konstantin Levin appraised him with caution, Garupe realized. Not an unusual experience for him. Laity regarded clergy either with awe or suspicion, sometimes a mixture of both. Perhaps the former aristocrat expected Garupe to chastise him for coming from wealth. It wasn’t his place to judge.

During introductions, Garupe clutched Konstantin’s free hand, warmed instantly by the man’s touch and struck by the flicker of pain in his gray-green eyes. They stood close to the same height, allowing Garupe to study the contradictions playing on the man’s features. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. His brow tensed while speaking what he assumed were pleasantries.

Knowing no Russian, he tried English first in hopes of deepening their connection. 

“It is not my best language.” Konstantin’s words came out slow and uncertain.

“I also speak French,” he relayed in that language. Konstantin’s widening smile buoyed his spirits.

“Ah, oui.” From there spilled a brief history of Konstantin’s near fluency, his studies in Moscow and tours of Paris to aid his immersion. 

Father O’Shea looked on with presumed appreciation, if not mild annoyance for being left out of the conversation. “Seems you two ought to get on well, then,” he said, and gently pushed Garupe closer to the front door where an over-excited young woman squealed her welcome. Garupe heard the words so thin and fix that, and understood the housekeeper viewed him as a project.

Where the cottage exterior presented a quaint, storybook air, the rooms conveyed little whimsy. It had the look of a rectory with its bare walls and practical furniture, and lack of ornate decor. A modest washroom sat off the kitchen, and residents used an outhouse behind the garden to relieve themselves. A large wooden crucifix hung in the sitting room, and the smaller living space reserved for Garupe displayed one as well. An oil lamp stood on the nightstand by a wrought iron-framed bed, and on top of the pillow rested a bible and rosary. 

“We figured you lost yours in the ship’s wreckage,” O’Shea told him with a hearty pat on Garupe’s back. He nearly shuffled off balance by the force of it, startled also by the other priest’s mirth. It sounded to Garupe as though O’Shea made light of recent events, and that the simple replacement of a book and string of beads would improve his situation, and his faith.

He needed neither book nor sacramental to pray, assuming he’d continue. Garupe let the older man natter on about the housekeeper’s duties and the Sunday Mass schedule and the diocese’s plans for his future, while he drifted around his new quarters. He found donated clothing in the wardrobe and hoped everything fit. He paused at the tiny writing desk propped against the room’s only window and looked down into the back garden, and hoped his room didn’t face east.

“Right.” O’Shea clasped his hands, breaking Garupe’s reverie. “I’ll leave you to rest before luncheon. Nina will find you when it’s ready.” The second the priest disappeared through the doorway, Konstantin Levin filled it.

“I am across the way if you need anything,” he said in French. “Although I’m not certain what I can offer you.”

Garupe smiled. The respectable distance was a nice start, though he wouldn’t have minded if the former aristocrat moved closer. Konstantin brought with him a sense of soft calm missing in his host and the housekeeper. He hated to think of using his housemate as a buffer, however.

“I hope you would offer me friendship, with or without drawn-out conversation,” Garupe told him. “I offer you mine.”

Konstantin smiled. “Mine is yours as well. Now that we are friends, I invite you to call me Kostya.”

Garupe liked the idea of an endearment. He ought to respond to Kostya in kind.

“My family calls me Cisco. Please do as well.”

Kostya tried out the name, repeating in the same inflection no matter how many times he was politely corrected. Every different twist of his lips brought the same result. Siska. Siska.

Siska was fine. He accepted the variation and changed the subject. “I am supposed to be in São Miguel, serving the poor.”

“They informed me of that. I’m sorry for what happened to you,” Kostya said. 

“I suspect they’ll install me in a parish somewhere,” Siska said, tracing the wood grain patterns on the desk. “Make me another church’s burden.”

“You don’t want that.” Kostya wasn’t asking a question. Siska knew at once his mask had fallen, or else the Russian saw through it.

“To be a burden?”

Kostya shook his head. “To preside over a church. You want to fulfill your mission.”

“I had, when I realized I wasn’t to be sent back. Now,” Siska moved closer to the window, looking out at the expanse of lust greens and foliage. Such a calmer sight than endless miles of muddied, unmerciful sea. It should have comforted him.

“Now, I want to go home.”

“YA khochu domoy,” said Kostya, and added at Siska’s interest, “It’s how you say it in Russian. I want it as well, but unfortunately they are not anymore.”

Siska followed with this gaze as the other man drifted from the doorway down the hall. 

~*~

When in private, they conversed exclusively in French. Kostya found the more he spoke it with Siska, his memory of it increased. His command of the language strengthened, as did his overall disposition. If his hosts noticed any difference in attitude they refrained from comment. Not so much with Nina, as evidenced one morning by her generosity in breakfast portions.

“It’s a blessing to have Father Garupe with us. I know for certain he’s had an effect on you.” Nina scooped out huge portions of oatmeal into Kostya’s bowl. She then turned to Siska with fondness in her expression. “So lovely, hearing that Portuguese accent,” she said, “even if you don’t use it much for English.”

Nina’s earlier words about his lighter, friendlier manner inspired the flushed sensation in his cheeks, but Siska’s reaction to the communication gap within the household robbed him of his breath. Nina all but accused Siska of favoring Kostya, to which the priest replied in–naturally–French, “It is the truth.”

Indeed, the former Russian nobleman had become enamored by Siska. In his homeland, the chances of the two ever meeting were nil. Kostya had never asked for his current path, but if a positive ever existed he’d now affirm meeting Siska counted.

Friend and confessor, Siska observed no judgment of Kostya’s faith when asked for the sacrament. He listened as Kostya unburdened himself over the loss of his family, his estate, and most of his money. 

“At one point I convinced myself that I deserved my every misery,” he told Siska. “I’d ask myself, why am I forced to live with nothing when I could have died, thus sparing my wife and son. I realize now the reverse does not punish me so much. They are surely in a better place.”

They sat in wrought iron chairs, facing each other, in the garden. Siska bowed his head and pressed his lips into his twined hands, and Kostya watched as a butterfly fluttered in a perfect arc over the priest’s head, like tracing the edges of a saint’s glowing corona. The tiny blue being landed on Siska’s shoulder and scissored its wings in a brief rest, inspiring Kostya to smile. His new friend easily attracted all creatures with his humility and grace.

“I will pray for them nonetheless,” Siska told him, “because of what they mean to you. If they enjoy the beatific vision, no doubt they advocate for your well being.”

Kostya smiled. “Perhaps they could advise the Almighty that I’d rather not end up in Chicago.” Based on everything he heard, it sounded like a crowded, noisy city with people living on top of each other. Kostya longed for wider spaces and dirt on the ground for cultivation instead of dust in the air for blackening lungs. He wanted a farm, and to encourage plants to grow, and make that his penance.

Siska lowered his hands and separated them. On impulse, Kostya reached for one, relieved when Siska didn’t flinch or jerk away. “Thank you. If I believed He’d listen, I’ll pray for you as well.”

“He may not always answer in the way you hope, but he does listen.” Siska’s smile set off the light in his eyes, and Kostya held onto that comforting sight for the rest of the day.

~*~

Over the course of the next two weeks, Siska prayed for Kostya and his departed family, but not as much as for himself.

He gave thanks for the food and shelter, feeling unworthy of both. He asked for blessings to fall on his hosts and the young caretaker, who continued to fuss over his gaunt appearance. Nina’s determination to fill out his body had recently veered from comical to annoying. Garupe appreciated her concern, but he ate when he wanted food. 

Above all else, he prayed to better understand these sudden lifts in mood, and body temperature, corresponding with proximity to Kostya. He treasured their friendship, and their evening discussions which often outlasted the oil in the lamps. This particular morning, he sat at his desk overlooking the gardens and watched Kostya pace with a cigarette. He wanted nothing more than to join the other man and share the pleasant day, yet an irrational sense of fear kept him upstairs.

He’d experienced these desires once before. Sebastião shared his cell in seminary and kneeled with him at every adoration. Siska cherished his quiet company and held his hand when influenza stole his final breath. For a long time afterward he blamed himself, believing the Lord saw other recourse than a permanent separation in order to preserve their souls.

Siska feared the same sad end for Kostya if he came too close. Yet, when he caught the Russian’s gaze, he was willing to test fate. He took out a sheet of paper and fountain pen, and composed a letter to Kostya in French. With every slanted stroke, he expressed his esteem and confessed his desire never to depart his company. He offered his devotion and love, though stopped short of defining it as fraternal or romantic. He’d gladly take either from Kostya but wanted to tread carefully. Writing these words into existence presented enough of a risk to his heart.

He blew lightly on the ink to dry it before folding the letter into thirds. The call to dinner roused him out of concentration, and he tucked away the paper in his bible. He decided to present it after Nina’s departure, but her enthusiasm upon greeting her charges set his mind on a different track.

“Father O’Shea asked I pass this along,” she said, dishing out the potatoes. “Father Garupe, they’ve found a parish for you, in Galveston.”

“Galveston?” What a strange word.

Nina smiled. “Texas, close to Mexico. Your knowing English and Spanish will be a huge boon there. And Mr. Levin, the Oblonskys wired the diocese this morning and sent your train fare. You’ll both leave tomorrow on the early trains, one west and one south. Isn’t that exciting?”

Exciting. Siska saw nothing to celebrate in one last evening with his friend before they were placed on transports rolling them in opposite directions. He glanced across the small table to where Kostya stared down at his food, slow to reach for his fork. The man’s lower eyelids were rimmed red, his brow wrinkled and his lips pale.

Siska tuned out Nina’s gay chatter and pressed his hand to his concave belly in a vain attempt to catch his falling heart.

~*~

They retired early, neither man interested in conversation. Kostya leaned on the wall by his open window, barefoot and shivering in his nightshirt. He wanted one last cigarette before forcing himself into sleep, and he flicked the ash with every puff. Tiny specks of red dissolved instantly in the breeze and he stared blankly out at the stars. He imagined Chicago as a bright, active city at all hours, with lamps lining all the streets. He wanted one last look at the skies here on the probability of light pollution masking such a beautiful view.

He hoped for more time here. Not necessarily in this house, but with Siska. He relied on their companionship to keep up his spirits. From their long, animated conversations to moments of quiet reflection and lingering glances, he drew strength and a determination to move forward. Their pending separation changed everything. He saw his confidence fade like the smoke he exhaled.

A low wail sounded from Siska’s room, putting him on alert. He stubbed out the fading cigarette in his palm before tossing out the remains, and set out to investigate. The floorboards were cold on his feet but he suffered no discomfort. Siska’s well-being took precedence, and when Kostya discovered his friend crumpled beside the bed he rushed over to help.

Siska hadn’t collapsed; he was praying. When he relaxed his twined fingers and opened his palms, he showed Kostya the mess he’d made of the rosary given to him. He’d torn apart one section of string and the wooden beads spilled onto the floor. “It’s symbolic, isn’t it?” he asked, and laughed without humor. “My line of communication is cut. My pleas are lost to the darkness.”

“Siska, you need to rest.” Kostya pulled him up under the quilt and slid in next to him. 

“I don’t want to leave you,” Siska told him. His dark eyes shone with unshed tears. “You are the only person in this country I truly know. I wanted to protest earlier, but I am afraid I have no say in my future here.”

As Siska despaired, Kostya raised his hand to cup the other man’s cheek. Siska’s beard was coming in, a bit uneven, but Kostya saw no imperfections. Siska seemed to favor the touch; he sniffled less and leaned to rest his head on Kostya’s shoulder. They huddled silently for about a minute in commiseration, until Kostya turned to check on the lamp’s waning light. He lowered his gaze to the bible and brought it to rest on their laps.

“Often you look for answers here, Siska?” he asked, and without waiting for an answer he opened to a random page. The book fell naturally to reveal a folded sheet of paper, which Kostya guessed served as a bookmark. Siska gasped at the sight of it, but Kostya moved it to one side and pressed his finger on the verse at the top, reading in English:

Naomi then said, 'Look, your sister-in-law has gone back to her people and to her god. Go home, too; follow your sister-in-law.'

But Ruth said, 'Do not press me to leave you and to stop going with you, for wherever you go, I shall go, wherever you live, I shall live. Your people will be my people, and your God will be my God.

Where you die, I shall die and there I shall be buried. Let Yahweh bring unnameable ills on me and worse ills, too, if anything but death should part me from you!'

Kostya laid his hand on the page, and Siska covered it. 

“I have enough jewelry sewn into my coat, Siska, to buy a small parcel of land. Perhaps not here. We’ll go neither west nor south, but north. Quebec.”

“Canada,” said Siska. “It is cold there, but it is cold here and I don’t mind the weather so much.” Certainly not with the two of them so close. Siska looked into Kostya’s eyes, his own tears gone. “Wherever you go,” he said, “I shall go.”

Kostya nodded. “Wherever you live, I shall live.”

When the kiss happened he wasn’t certain which one of them initiated it, but Kostya thanked all things divine for the night of quiet lovemaking where it led.

~*~

The letter stayed behind on the nightstand, tucked safely within the Book of Ruth, as a dual confession and farewell. Siska wondered if Nina would even notice it, and if so, would she bother to learn enough French to translate it.

They left the house together well before dawn. Kostya’s bag held his belongings and a change of clothes for Siska, plus whatever food from the kitchen they believed would keep. They intended to walk the road toward the city before Nina or Father O’Shea arrived, and find a train traveling north. Barring that, they’d pawn one of the hidden treasures from Kostya’s fur and purchase a horse and wagon. 

“What are you doing?” Kostya asked as he waited by the front door. He glanced outward, looking anxious, no doubt intent to beat the sunrise into town. He rubbed his fingers together, no doubt wanting a cigarette to ease his nerves. Siska wanted to laugh, if only to ease the tension. 

“Just a quick prayer.” He may never remember every detail of his brief stay in this cottage, but he was taking with him the one thing that mattered most. Siska wanted future occupants to receive similar blessings of love and companionship. Coming up to the front door, he spread his palm over the jamb and closed his eyes. May every person who passes through find the contentment given to me.

With his amen he closed the front door and took Kostya’s hand, and the first step into their future.

Chapter Text

At least Mary hadn’t taken a torch to the place before shoving off.

Andrew Henry–home from a lengthy excursion in the Northwest Territories, bone tired, reeking of woodsmoke and dirt–summoned the energy to walk the perimeter of his home. Everything looked in order. No spiderweb cracks in the windows, no separations between the brick and wood to permit leaks. A neat pyramid of cut logs waited in the back near the outdoor larder which, as he inspected, was full. 

It looked as though Mary had taken care to leave the house in working order for him. The vitriol dripping from her last letter, clutched in his gloved hand, suggested his arrival to an entirely different scene. Perhaps Mary experienced a change of heart in between posting her final words and packing her bags, or maybe a new lover convinced her to exit the marriage as the bigger person. If the latter, Andrew supposed he owed that stranger his gratitude.

He was home from a trapping expedition that robbed him of nearly all emotion and energy. His wife called it quits. He was too tired to process this new life, and decided to mull over his options after a long bath and sleep.

Andrew turned to circle the house again when the wind pulled the back door an inch or so from its clasp. Unlocked. Well, shit. Andrew worked a bit of math in his head to calculate the time between his receipt of the letter, Mary’s presumed departure, and his return. A door unlocked in this county, even for a night, invited all manner of trouble.

He shrugged the strap of his sack higher on his shoulder and rested one hand on his holstered weapon while pushing into the kitchen with the other. He hoped, at worst, to see a floor covered in dried scat and the musty aroma of neglect. He found the kitchen table loaded down with empty liquor bottles, an overturned box of corn flakes on the counter, and an orange tabby hovering over the spillage, nipping at the cereal with her little tongue. Deeper in the house, a skipping record competed with grizzly-grade snoring for white noise.

A squatter. Andrew let the sack thump to the floor and he cocked his pistol.

Little had changed in the house since his last extended stay. The Queen Anne settee in the main room faced the fireplace. Framed photographs lined the mantle–all Andrew’s relatives, plus his wedding photo. A gift from Mary, or maybe a jabbing reminder of what he’d given up, by her estimation.

Stretched across the settee, too tall for its curved frame, lay a man. Unconscious, not quite dead. The cuffs of his beige slacks were rucked up to his calves, showing off lean muscle and dark hair to match the mussed mane on his head. His blue shirt, the buttons and holes misaligned, revealed peeks of flesh through the plackets. The unwelcome guest draped one arm over his eyes while the other cuddled a bottle of whiskey close to his breast. 

He must have sensed a shift within the room when Andrew entered, for he smacked his lips and sighed before resuming his gape-mouthed snore. Andrew looked down on him with a mixture of pity and fury, giving it a second to decide which impulse outweighed the other to determine his next step.

Fix him a hearty breakfast to help him sober up and shove off, or shoot him where he slept.

Eh. Mary had done him a kindness by not leaving him a burnt-out husk of a house. Hard to get blood out of chintz, too.

Leaving on his fingerless gloves, he first lifted the needle from the warped vinyl disc spinning on the phonograph. At the settee, he reached down and pinched the man’s nostrils, then waited. Three, two, one and the unwelcome guest puffed his cheeks while waving his arms and legs like an overturned turtle. Andrew counted seven seconds before the man realized he could breathe through his mouth. And cuss.

“Fuck! Stop it!”

Andrew rolled back on his heels as the man bolted upright, splashing whiskey on the bright fabric. Seeing the drunk was unarmed, he uncocked his gun and calmly waited for intelligible words.

The man straightened his sleeves and lapels, assuming an alpha stance yet keeping the settee between them as a presumed buffer. He pointed the now nearly empty bottle toward the front door. “You have no business trespassing,” he told Andrew. “Get o– wait,” he faltered, “did Jack Warner send you?”

“No,” said Andrew.

“Mayer? Zanuck? Hughes?”

Andrew shook his head with every name check.

The man sagged, giving Andrew a look of desperation. “You have twenty bucks I can borrow?”

“Not a sou.”

The confident anger returned. “Get out!”

“This is my house, sir,” Andrew said, and tried not to crack up at the last word. “I am Andrew Henry, I hold the deed to this house, and I have come home. I am not taking boarders at this time, either. You have one minute to vacate the premises.”

He expected an argument, at best, so as he spoke he rounded the settee to the mantle and picked up his photo. He’d affixed the deed on the back, and thankfully Mary left it untouched. Waving it in front of… “And your name?” he asked. He thought it best to learn the name of the person he was evicting, in the event he needed to alert the authorities later.

“Hm?” The man blinked, and wobbled on his feet. “I thought I told you to scram.”

“I own this house and the surrounding fenced-in property.” Andrew spoke slowly to drive home the point. “I purchased this cottage and the land attached to it three years ago from the area Catholic diocese. If you don’t intend to reveal your identity, at least have the decency to confess whether or not you had relations with my wife, that I may decide whether or not to forgive you.”

A loud belch, then, “Toby Grummett.” Toby Grummett currently faced another direction, and scratched his crotch with his free hand.

“Mr. Grummett.”

“What?”

Andrew narrowed his gaze. He could have been in a hot bath by now, soothing his sore muscles. “Did you sleep with my wife?”

Toby scratched his brow and gave a shrug. “I don’t know, probably. What’s her name?”

“Mary.”

“Mary,” Toby echoed, turning his gaze about the room, as though to boost his booze-addled memory. “Mary Pickford, Mary Miles Minter, Mary Queen of Scots… you’ll have to narrow it down.”

Sighing, Andrew tossed the framed photo and Toby caught it in both hands after dropping the whiskey. The neck of the bottle snapped off, and the last swallow soaked into the floorboards. Andrew hoped it wasn’t the last of his liquor.

“Oh, her.” Toby nodded and smiled, rubbing the gray-toned portrait. “No, she rented me the place, though.”

Ah. So this was the final parting shot, leaving him to deal with a slovenly tenant. “For how long, and how much?” Andrew asked, thinking of his bag in the other room which held his share of the expedition’s gains. “Assuming you paid her in advance, I’ll refund you so you can find a room in town.” If not, he’d offer a modest amount just to get the man on his way.

“What happened to ‘not a sou’?” Toby mocked, then rounded on him. “Don’t you know who I am?” They were roughly the same height, though Toby’s unkempt hair gave him a slight advantage. It wasn’t enough to intimidate Andrew, who remained in place and hovered his hand over his holstered hip. “Toby Grummett?”

“I know your name, you’ve said it twice, but your reputation doesn’t concern me. Your departure is another matter,” Andrew said. “I’ve recently returned from a two-year trapping expedition in Western Canada and I want–”

“Well, maybe you’ve heard of The Kid From Tucson? ” Toby cut in. “No? What about Lady Cyanide ? Maisie Goes To College ? Maisie In The City ? Maisie Conquers The– ”

Andrew touched his bare forefingers to Toby’s chest. He hit an open shot between two undone buttons and noted Toby’s rising body temperature despite the room’s lack of heat. His first skin on skin contact in months, and it shouldn’t have affected him as much as it did right now. Toby didn’t flinch. “Maisie has quite the resume, it seems,” he said. “I take it these are all titles of moving pictures?”

Toby snorted at the archaic terms. “Movies, yes. My movies. I directed all of them for Quixote Pictures International, and in fact…” Toby caught his foot on the leg of the settee, nudging it out of place as he wandered closer to the kitchen, “I’m borrowing the lot behind yours to fulfill my contract for the studio.”

“I see.” Andrew hadn’t looked out that far when inspecting his home. The sight of the many empties on the kitchen table had him guessing much of Toby Grummett’s activities happened in his own head. “Shouldn’t you be in California, then? That’s where the so-called magic happens, I hear.”

Toby brought his hand to his lips and blinked again, obviously realizing he no longer held the bottle. “It’s cheaper to film on this coast and ship the reels, if you can believe that. Also, I’m hoping to establish and grow an East Coast presence for the film industry. Once my current projects are completed the plan is to get one of the major studios to help subsidize my movies in exchange for distribution rights and a percentage of—”

Andrew came forward and clasped Toby on the shoulder. He was tired, filthy, pissed at his soon-to-be former wife, and resigned to the fact Toby Grummett wasn’t leaving anytime soon. “Let’s finish this story in the bath,” he said, and steered Toby to the back washroom.

“Both of us won’t fit in that tub,” Toby said.

Andrew glared at him.

~*~

“Is that your cat rummaging through my cupboards, Mr. Grummett?”

“It’s Toby, and no. Cat’s feral, or at least it was. She kept prancing into the shots and disrupting production, so I brought her to the house. I named her Millicent.”

“Why Millicent?”

“Dunno. Just seemed like an appropriate name for a stubborn cat demanding all my attention.”

“Well, you’re welcome to take Millicent with you when your so-called rental agreement with my wife expires.”

“You sure? She’s a good cat, doesn’t scratch or make noise at night. A good mouser, too. I saw her catch one the other day.”

“Funny how in all the time I’ve spent here, I never so much as spied an insect or rodent. Of course, I never left out food in every room to tempt critters.”

“To hear your wife talk, when were you ever home?”

“Now you know why she’s my ex-wife.”

Andrew sat upright in the clawfoot tub to accommodate the warm water on his hips and thighs, since they hurt the most. As the heat softened the knots in his muscles and contentment spread through the rest of his body, he found Toby’s company less irritating. If asked, he’d readily admit the bottle of shine passed between them contributed to his increased tolerance of the man.

Toby perched next to the tub on a wooden stool too small for his lanky frame. Back curved, knees banging his long chin, he looked downright comical as he shifted for full, comfortable coverage on the narrow seat. Andrew had to admire the man’s resilience, however. Toby hadn’t stopped drinking since their introduction and the man kept his balance well.

Continuing on the thread of conversation, Andrew spoke as he reached for the liquor when offered, “Mary wouldn’t have tolerated cats inside the house, or pets of any sort. Not that she wasn’t fond of animals, but kept a tidy home. One of her better attributes.”

“Couldn’t help but notice a few of her ‘attributes’ when we negotiated the rent.” Toby grinned. “Woman wore a permanent lemon pucker on her face, though. I don’t blame you for your long business trips.”

Andrew huffed out a mirthless laugh. “My absences aren’t necessarily what ended the marriage, but rather her perception of what I did during those absences,” he said, remembering Mary’s vicious accusations in her letter. 

“What’d you do?”

Andrew trapped animals for their furs. The one bearskin he brought home to cover his bed served as proof. “Not so much what as whom, according to her.”

“Ah.” Toby raised an eyebrow and smiled. “I’ve often wondered what it’s like to patronize a brothel in the Yukon. If you put your tongue on a frozen prostitute, will it stick?”

“When you do, share the details. I’m also curious.” Andrew intended to leave the topic with those words, but Toby’s silent appraisal of him encouraged clarification. “She wasn’t thinking that, and what she thought… never happened.”

As to whether or not Andrew considered seeking intimate company with his own gender, well… those thoughts alone helped on the coldest nights. The rapidly cooling bathwater surrounding his naked body, however, no longer offered remedies.

“Hand me that towel, would you?” he asked Toby, and noticed the man didn’t turn away when he stood in the tub.

~*~

Despite Toby’s amiable nature, Andrew spent the first night home with his gun under his pillow and his senses attuned to the door. When Toby didn’t burst through to leap and strangle him, he relaxed his guard a bit. The boarder forced upon him exhibited boorish behavior at times, but Andrew saw how dedicated Toby was to his craft. As the days wore on, he learned much about filmmaking through Toby’s enthusiastic narratives. Andrew cooked the meals, while Toby entertained him with stories of Hollywoodland scandals and triumphs. It seemed like a nice, even exchange.

Toby, while settled in the guest room across the hall, elected to ride out the nights on the settee with his records and the fireplace for warmth. Probably not a bad idea, since Andrew anticipated a deep freeze ahead. It struck him curious, too, how Toby expected to complete his movie projects on an outdoor set without his entire cast of characters chattering their teeth.

One cool morning, Andrew woke at sunrise to a quiet house. He passed by Toby’s door, open to reveal an unmade bed and a suitcase from which several changes of clothes had exploded. Downstairs, it appeared his tenant made some effort to clean up the sitting room and kitchen. Andrew set up his stove percolator for coffee, noting the sweep marks in the cereal crumbs on the counter.

Millicent purred and slinked around his stocking feet. “I haven’t turned you out yet, no need to butter me up,” he cooed. He found some cream in the icebox and poured some in a dish for her. After his own quick breakfast he tidied up his beard and dressed for the weather. He was almost out the back door to inventory his larder when a knock sounded on the front.

The boy in the Western Union uniform was about Andrew’s height with similar ginger hair, but looked barely old enough to shave. His badge read Moon. “I’m s’posed to give this to To-bye-us Grummett.”

Andrew dropped a few coins in his hand and took the telegram. “Mr. Grummett is my tenant, I’ll see that he gets it.” He now had a legitimate excuse for taking a break from home renovations and visiting Toby’s sets, anyway. The boy had gushed about how the message came all the way from California. So nice to hold a bit of sunshine and Hollywood; Andrew smiled at the boy’s giddiness.

Bundled in his winter coat, Andrew walked the back road behind his property to where a line of motorized vehicles were parked alongside a wide field. He marveled at the activity spread out before him. Multiple sets, positioned far enough apart to allow foot traffic to pass, bustled with people either playacting or shouting at the performers. Andrew wouldn’t claim to know much about movies, having seen three or four in his lifetime, but he was awed by the chaotic process.

He also considered the number of people trampling the grounds here, far more than had occupied the fort that served as home base during his expedition. People operated film cameras, applied makeup, stitched costumes, pantomimed fights in saloons and love scenes on fake balconies. Others supervised the masses. 

Behind the structured sets, what looked like a reenactment of a Civil War battle raged with trick gunfire and flying fists. Lording over the scene atop a repurposed duck blind for hunting stood Toby in yesterday’s clothes and dark glasses, with a white hat protecting him from the sun. Next to him, a man holding a camera recorded the chaos on the ground.

Toby shouted directions into a large megaphone, steering some historical accuracy into the scene. “Fall back! Back!” he was shrieking when Andrew reached the base of the wobbling wooden structure. “No, don’t rally. The South didn’t win this one.”

“Mr. Grummett!”

Toby aimed the megaphone at Andrew. “Report to the green tent for your assignment and/or pay envelope, mac.”

Andrew sighed. “Mr. Grummett. It’s me,” he said.

Toby lowered the hollow cone for a better look when Andrew waved the telegram, then scrambled down to the grass. He snatched the message and tore it open.

“You’re just going to let this continue without your supervision?” Andrew noticed a few Confederate soldiers drifting closer and hoped the cameraman didn’t get him in the shot, too.

“It’s not like anybody paused the actual war,” Toby said, scanning the telegram. As he read with moving lips, Andrew watched the man’s expression darken, then twist into a scowl, then emit several variations of the word fuck.

Without the megaphone, Toby proved himself of hearty voice. “ CUT! ” he shrieked, putting a stop to the battle. He whirled around and repeated the order to the other sets. Like a wave, bodies slowed to a halt. All the actors, assistant directors and behind the scenes jobbers froze in mid-action and turned to Toby in collective astonishment.

“Strike all the sets. Pack up and go home. We’re done here,” Toby said, his voice deep and snarling. “Everybody see Melissa about your final pay, and nobody fuckin’ talk to me.” With that, he stormed off in the direction of Andrew’s house. Andrew made to follow, but the ensuing rush of panic carried him along toward the main personnel tents, and he struggled to move against the tide and free himself.

~*~

He found Toby in a position identical to that of their first encounter. This time, Andrew eased the whiskey bottle from the man’s loose grip and left his nose alone. “Am I allowed to ask?” He lowered the volume on the phonograph. “As your landlord, perhaps your outburst concerns me.”

Toby sat up, his expression maudlin, and moved his legs for Andrew to sit. He offered up the telegram, indeed sent from Hollywood, California, U.S.A.:

CEASE ALL PRODUCTIONS STOP
JAZZ SINGER MASSIVE HIT STOP
RETURN IMMEDIATELY STOP - DQ

“Who is the jazz singer and why would anybody massively hit him?” Andrew asked, handing back the telegram.

Toby shook his head. “Not a who, a what. The Jazz Singer is a new movie out from Warner. A talking picture.”

“Talking?”

“You know. The characters talk on screen and people hear them.” Toby shoved the torn paper into his shirt pocket. “The Warners had this technology to synchronize sound with film. It wasn’t supposed to work, but apparently it has.” He shrugged. “Everything I’ve done to this point is garbage now.”

“You don’t know that.”

Toby pinned him with a hard, rheumy gaze. “I don’t? Henry, if pictures talk, it means the movies I’m making right now–anybody else’s movies at that–are finished. If The Jazz Singer is a hit back home, it’ll be a hit here and everywhere else, and there’s no turning back.”

“It’s called progress, Grummett. One day somebody will invent an automated method of trapping furs. I don’t know how, but when it happens I’ll have to adapt.” Andrew swigged from the bottle and passed it over. “The telegram says to return immediately. It’s probably so you can regroup with your studio and film your first talking picture.”

“Or to fire me in person.” Toby grumbled. “Progress means doing away with the old guard. I don’t like change. Maybe I should switch careers.”

“That would be a change, Grummett.”

Toby slammed the empty bottle on the floor. “Is fur trapping hard? You think I could do it?”

“It’s dangerous. If various adversaries aren’t shooting arrows into your back, the grizzlies are clawing into your innards. A man in my company nearly got eaten by a bear.” The memory chilled Andrew, yet Toby seemed awed to hear it.

“Now that would be a hell of a movie.”

“No talking, all screaming.” Andrew stood and stretched. “It’s just as well you shut down your production. There’s a cold snap coming.”

“How do you know?”

Andrew gave him a sad smile. “You spend enough time outdoors, you learn to read the weather. Stay warm, Grummett. Let’s talk more in the morning when you’re hopefully feeling better. Good night.”

~*~

As he anticipated, the temperature in the house plummeted with the weather. Andrew wore his long johns and stockings, sans the garters, to bed, and snuggled under the bear fur blanket. The weight of the fur helped lull him to sleep, therefore he didn’t immediately sense the new presence in his bed until it pressed right against him with ice cold fingers.

“Fuck!”

Toby grunted. “Henry, damn it, move over.” 

“Get out of my bed!” Andrew twisted to face Toby. “You have your room and the entire downstairs. Go sleep by the fire–”

“The fire went out. All the wood burned down to ash and it’s too damn cold outside to get more,” Toby said. “I just want to keep warm tonight.”

Andrew paused, stunned and somewhat aroused by all the skin he touched while pushing Toby away. “Grummett, are you completely naked?”

“I hear skin contact is better for generating heat.”

Certain types of heat, yes. It tingled along his own skin, and Andrew turned on his side away from Toby to resist temptation. 

“I don’t have long underwear, like you,” Toby added. “You don’t need it in Southern California.”

“This isn’t…” Andrew gave up. Petty arguments helped neither of them. “As long as you don’t snore you can stay. I’ll take you into town tomorrow for proper winter wear. Now be quiet.”

Settling his head on his pillow, Andrew closed his eyes and hoped for no further interruptions. It lasted all of two minutes before Toby was walking his fingers around the band of skin exposed when Andrew’s top untucked from his bottoms. Toby wasn’t so cold anymore as he tested light touches underneath the seat of Andrew’s long sleep pants.

“How does a man with a hard disposition feel so soft?” Toby’s voice rumbled smoky and low in Andrew’s ear.

Andrew swallowed. He ought to discourage Toby’s overtures, especially when the man slid his hand over Andrew’s hip and curled it around his cock. If Toby was drunk and out of control, he couldn’t consent to this behavior. Yet, Toby seemed to sense his apprehension and assured Andrew he was fine.

“I like you, even when you’re mean.”

“I’m not always mean, Grummett.”

“No. You cook for me. Nobody’s ever really done that for me, not even my mother. But I can be mean, too, if you want,” Toby said. “Like attracts like.”

Toby’s hand massaging his cock triggered memories of his time up north. Andrew had offers at the various camps, and declined each one, more out of fidelity to Mary than lack of interest. It meant many lonely nights hearing those who did pair off rut in their tents, and eventually regret on Andrew’s part. 

Andrew pushed his groin into Toby’s grip. “How mean are we talking?”

Toby answered by biting Andrew’s neck, just under his jaw, while squeezing his aching cock.

“Please,” Andrew said. “I suffered worse from mosquitos.”

“In Canada?” Toby laughed, and without waiting for an answer shoved Andrew’s bottoms to his knees. “You know you shouldn’t hoard all the heat. Be hospitable, for fuck’s sake.”

“I suppose you’ll just take it,” Andrew said, intending for it to sound like an invitation. Mary was long gone, and Toby really wanted to drive home the point of like attracting like. “Might as well help.”

Turning onto his stomach, Andrew grasped the edge of the bed and braced himself for Toby’s weight. With every touch, every spit-slick finger shoved inside him, he groaned at the heat generated. When the bearskin began to suffocate them, Andrew helped Toby push it to one side while rucking up his sleep top for better skin contact. He wasn’t the only one soft and smooth over taut muscle.

Toby hooked his arms under Andrew, grasping at his shoulders for balance while they fucked a divot into the down mattress. The rapid tattoo of the headboard hitting the wall matched the beat thumping in Andrew’s temples. 

It felt good, being with another person rather than cramping up his right hand for the sake of an orgasm. Andrew pushed his hips upward to enjoy their rut at a different angle and hopefully feel more of Toby’s body slapping against his. The occasional brush of Toby’s balls against his increased his enjoyment and their shared heat.

“Greedy, aren’t we?” Toby teased him. “I push any deeper I’ll be in your chest.”

“Warm enough for you?” he gritted out, turning his head to the panting shadow hovering over him. With Toby’s face obscured in the dark, Andrew swore he saw a grin.

“Oh, yeah. Just like home,” Toby said. “Hot and arid.”

“You want it wet?” Andrew fixed his glare on Toby. “Then kiss me, you idiot.”

~*~

“Are you going on another trapping expedition soon?”

“That eager to see me off? I wouldn’t necessarily leave care of the house to you.”

“I’m eager to go with you.”

Andrew blinked, then stared down his companion. By morning the temperature had risen a bit but they righted the bear blanket and remained huddled underneath it. “I told you what to expect, right?” he asked, and pinched a few strands of the dark fur. “If you knew what it took to fell the behemoth that belonged to this…”

“I wouldn’t hunt them. I’d record you hunting them, for a film. A documentary.” Toby sat up, smoothing down the fur with both hands. “You ever see Nanook of the North? Something like that, and I wouldn’t need to record sound. I could have somebody narrate the film afterward. If I have to change to survive, I might as well try it my way first.”

Andrew rose up to meet him. “You’re serious.” When Toby nodded, he added, “Bears and poachers won’t discriminate between hunters and film directors.”

“Poachers I might be able to convince to stand down if I make them famous.”

“Or else they’ll kill you first and destroy the camera with the evidence,” Andrew said.

“You’ll have somebody to keep you warm every night, too.” Toby snuggled closer, kissing Andrew’s neck. “What do you say? You and me against the wilderness.”

Tempting, but there were other considerations. “A trapping crew might resent you. You’d be another mouth to feed.”

“I’d make it worth their while. I can introduce them all to Clara Bow,” Toby said. “At least think about it.”

Andrew sighed, leaning into the other man’s kiss. Damn it, but he already was.

Chapter Text

“Here she is. I warned you she isn’t much, but she survived a war and held up well through a Trans-Atlantic move. It should account for something.”

Faraday took his guest’s coat before he gestured to the upright Steinway grand piano positioned against the far wall of his sitting room. He kept it far from the windows in order to preserve the integrity of the mahogany casing, but the wood nonetheless showed signs of age and wear. “It serves more as a conversation piece than a musical instrument these days, I’m afraid,” he said, “although I’ve resisted the temptation to convert it to a catch-all for photographs and unread post.”

His guest laughed softly at that, and kept his gaze on the piano as he approached. Slowly, gingerly, as though studying an animal in the wild. Faraday admired his guest’s form, everything from the cut of his formal suit to the spread of his fingers as he raised his hands to lift the fallboard protecting the keys. Basil Anthony was not a small man, or a slight one. Despite his broad shoulders and near identical height to Faraday, those qualities weren’t noticed first. 

Basil’s intense profile as he performed at the Ramplings’ dinner party this evening, his head bent over the keys as he flicked his gaze intermittently at the music, captured Faraday’s attention as much as the concerto itself. When the party’s hostess introduced the two men afterward, it was all Faraday could do not to gush over the flawless performance. It still amazed him that his awkward contribution to their initial exchange resulted in the young man’s presence here.

Mrs. Rampling tells me you’re known to play Mozart recordings during surgery, Dr. Faraday.

I have a piano at home. Would you like to see it?

Awkward indeed, and he’d sounded too giddy for his age, but it worked. Basil seated himself on the bench and turned to Faraday with an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry, Doctor. I should have asked first before opening the fallboard.”

Faraday hung their coats on the rack by the door. “It’s quite alright. Pianos are meant to be touched and played. Were I to remember my childhood lessons, I’d be seated there more often. May I fix you a drink?”

“Please. I’m not particular.” Basil tested the Middle C and winced. “It’s desperately in need of tuning.”

Standing at his modest bar service, Faraday prepared two glasses of bourbon, neat. “I haven’t had the opportunity since I settled here. What little free time I have away from the hospital, I spend renovating this cottage.”

Basil fingered the keys without really playing, like encouraging the ghost of a tune. He looked around the modest sitting room and said, “You have a lovely home.”

“You’re actually sitting in the first room I completed. Your opinion might change if you took the whole tour,” Faraday said with a self-deprecating laugh. “The house had quite a history before I purchased it.”

“I’d love to hear it.” Basil turned fully on the bench to face Faraday in his wingback chair, and sipped his drink when offered it. Faraday took a moment to collect his thoughts, but mainly to study the young man before him. Basil Anthony was ethereally handsome, deep-voiced and polite. Well before Faraday realized he was in attendance at the Ramplings’ to perform for their guests, he saw how Basil commanded everyone’s attention. The older denizens of the county, despite their wealth and status and fancy dress, seemed washed out in comparison. 

As for himself, a relative newcomer in the middle of the spectrum of age and income, Faraday knew he had more than a few years on the musician, but hopefully not enough to discourage a friendship or more. Of course, he wasn’t getting his hopes up on the latter, unaware of Basil’s inclinations.

“This house was once the property of a fur trader, though as I understand it he was rarely home,” Faraday said, and pointed his glass at the mantle. “That’s his wedding photo, actually. One of the many things that conveyed with the house when I purchased it. There are more artifacts in the attic, though some appear to predate Mr. Henry. I’m digressing, though.

“Mr. Henry lived here only a short time. He’d taken up with a filmmaker who used the field behind my property as a studio lot, before movies went to sound. When Mr. Henry embarked on another trade expedition the filmmaker accompanied him, ostensibly to record footage for a nature documentary.” He paused for a sip. “I’ve heard different endings to that story, that either they were never heard from again, or they continued on to Hollywood afterward to continue careers in the movies. I don’t get out to the cinema much, so I can only guess.”

Basil shook his head. “I’ll say the same. I prefer the stage.”

“That’s not the interesting part, however,” Faraday said. “Mr. Henry’s wife filed for divorce on grounds of abandonment, but well before he departed on a prior expedition she found she was pregnant,” he continued, and leaned forward to deliver the reveal in a conspiratorial whisper. “She apparently never told Henry.”

Basil widened his eyes.

“Naturally, local gossip debated the child’s true parentage. Either she conceived with Henry before he left, or she was unfaithful. A gap of a few weeks or a month might have allowed her to pass off a love child as her husband’s, but consensus among people who remember the events believe the wife took a lover,” Faraday said. “It might be why the wedding photo is still here. At any rate, Mrs. Henry reclaimed the house as her son’s inheritance, and the young man recently sold it to me.”

Basil nodded. “That is an interesting story, the sort that would inspire a dramatic score… oh!” The harsh, disjointed melody of cat paws on keys startled Basil, and he twisted around to collect the orange tabby who interrupted them. “Hello there.”

“That’s Millicent the Third.” Faraday smiled. “Another holdover from the previous owners. Young Mr. Henry isn’t able to keep pets where he lives now, and I simply didn’t have the heart to turn her away.”

Millicent purred on Basil’s lap as he scratched behind her ears. “I don’t blame you. I have a soft spot for cats myself.”

Faraday took that as a promising sign. 

“You mentioned taking lessons as a child, but you don’t play,” Basil said, looking up at him. “Why go through the expense and labor of hauling a piano all the way from England?”

Faraday pulled his cigarette case from his vest pocket. The silver casing felt cold in his hands, and his own body temperature dropped at the touch, or perhaps the coming memory. “That piano is… also an inheritance, of sorts,” he said, and from there he briefly summarized his connection to the Ayres family and their ancestral home, Hundreds Hall. “When everything in the house and the property itself went up for auction, I wanted something as a keepsake,” he said, and huffed out a joyless laugh. “I realize I could have bid on a trinket, something easily carried in baggage, but Caroline was fond of the piano. I felt it my duty to see it in a home where it was appreciated.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Doctor. I can’t fathom the pain of losing a spouse, much less a loved one before your wedding.”

Faraday lit his cigarette. While Caroline had called off the engagement before her untimely death, he didn’t see the need to correct Basil. Nobody from that part of his life existed here to tell him otherwise.

“Are you interested in lessons, Doctor?” Basil reached behind him and tried a few keys. They sounded as off-tune as the Middle C. “I mostly tutor children, but I consider pupils of all ages,” he said. “In fact, it’s heartening to see people take an interest in playing music later in life. There are no limits once you set your mind to a goal.”

“Please, just call me Faraday, Mr. Anthony.”

Basil shifted his gaze, smiling. “Only if you call me Basil.” His voice lowered along with his eyelids, taking on a deeper tone that inspired shivers up Faraday’s spine. Faraday pinched his cigarette hard in the center and nearly halved it. He managed to stub out the burning end in the ashtray by his chair; he was about to lose his nerve.

“What I had in mind… Basil, was a different kind of arrangement.” Hands now free, he twined his fingers and leaned forward in his chair. “One I think would benefit us both.”

~*~

“Are you not familiar with the adage, Basil?”

Basil looked up from where he stood by his cot, in the dingy efficiency he shared with two other starving artists. All of his worldly possessions, amounting to little in the grand scheme of things, were laid out on the thin mattress and awaiting room in his suitcase. Since accepting Faraday’s proposal the previous evening, he gave little thought to adages or proverbs or ancient wives’ tales. It wasn’t as though he could hear or heed any of them over the sound of his growling stomach.

“If something seems too good to be true,” said his friend and now former roommate Ned, “it probably is.”

“Dr. Faraday is a man of impeccable reputation,” Basil countered, and resumed packing. “The Ramplings are the most respected family in town and they vouch for him. He presented me with an opportunity and I’d be a fool to decline.”

Ned straddled the only chair in the small apartment, a cast-off found in an alley, and leered at him. “So Dr. Faraday has offered you a room to yourself in his home, rent-free, plus kitchen privileges, simply out of the goodness of his heart?” He raised an eyebrow and laughed. “And he expects nothing in return?”

“He does, though.”

“Aha!” Ned snapped his fingers.

Basil secured his case. “I am to repair his piano,” he said, “after which I have unlimited use of it in my composition work.”

“It hardly seems like a balanced exchange, Basil.”

“Dr. Faraday will enjoy first access to every song I write as long as I am in residence. I intend to take advantage of my time there.”

“And you’ll be earning money on that piano, hosting your student lessons in the doctor’s home instead of using the piano at the Y?” Ned asked.

Basil shook his head. “No. The purpose of this arrangement is for me to concentrate fully on completing my own songs. I’ve advised my students to find another tutor.”

Ned wrinkled his brows. “Congratulations. You’re a kept man, Basil.”

“I’m a musician with a patron,” Basil said, grabbing his case with more force than necessary. He didn’t appreciate how his friend wanted to twist an otherwise professional arrangement. “It’s not a new concept.” 

His friend snorted out a harsh laugh. “Dr. Faraday is hardly a Medici. He seems rather odd, if you ask me. Never married at his age, inviting naive young men into his home. This is the type of behavior the Ramplings endorse?”

Basil stormed past Ned toward the door. He saw no point in mentioning Faraday’s poor departed fiancee, or that the doctor hadn’t extended such a kindness to anyone before him. He was an eminent physician and surgeon with no black marks on his record, and concern about Faraday’s personal life belonged to nobody, least of all Ned and Basil.

“With the money I’m saving on expenses, I’m leaving some to you and George to cover my share of the rent for the next two months. It should give you time to find another man to live here,” Basil said. He didn’t bother with a goodbye; he was ready to leave.

As the taxi rumbled up the long, narrow road toward Faraday’s remote cottage, Basil chewed on his friend’s words. It wasn’t unusual for homeowners to take in boarders, especially those who worked at the area factories that had opened in the wake of the post-war economic boom. Basil’s situation, placing himself under Faraday’s financial care, was certain to inspire gossip, but Faraday seemed sincere, very much interested in helping Basil achieve his goals.

Yes, Basil thought the older doctor handsome as well, but the man had talked of a fiancee, a woman he appeared to mourn. Had Faraday intended to seduce him, he had ample opportunity the previous night.

Basil paid and tipped the driver, then palmed the key Faraday had given him. The more he thought about it, he realized he probably wouldn’t have minded. 

~*~

Faraday kept odd hours owing to the nature of his work. Babies arrived when they saw fit, and appendices tended to rupture at the most inconvenient of times, typically around suppertime or past midnight. Nonetheless, he strove to maintain regular daytime rounds at the hospital, a challenge given the shortage of capable staff. One would think the doctors from this area who served during the war would gladly return to routine, but apparently many chose to remain in the armed forces or find work in larger cities where the population increased. It was one reason the hospital recruited Faraday.

It therefore benefited him, he thought, to remain a bachelor. Caroline, had she not called off the engagement, probably would have tired of his coming and going at all hours. No, his arrangement with Basil suited him. It seemed no matter what time he trudged home, the young man’s beautiful melodies welcomed him.

Basil’s music stirred his soul, and the sight of the handsome musician testing different keys and jotting down minims, crotchets and quavers in his ledger touched Faraday in other places as well. This particular night, he paused just outside his front door so as not to interrupt the flow of the melody Basil was creating. He waited for the right moment–an abrupt ending and Basil emitting a mild curse–before making his presence known.

“I won’t interrupt you,” Faraday hung up his hat and jacket, “I’ll fix a quick sandwich before I turn in.”

“It’s quite alright.” Basil still sat facing the piano, erasing one note from his sheet. He quickly sketched in a different one–Basil had shown Faraday earlier in the week how to differentiate each symbol. “I am ready to quit for the night anyway.” He turned and offered a smile with more energy than his body language conveyed. “I’ve adapted to your schedule, it seems. It isn’t fair for me to play all night when you need your rest.”

“I don’t mind. You should stay up as late as you must, and with my bedroom door closed it muffles the sound. The idea is for you to write your music when you are inspired, not at my convenience,” Faraday told him. “Is this the same song as yesterday?”

Basil gathered up his music sheets. “A new one, actually. I finished that other song, and I want to complete at least three more before I query any agents.”

“I see.” The two had discussed that at length as well, on a day when the stars aligned and both were home to relax in the back garden with tea. Faraday found comfort in reviving the flower beds in his spare time, and he planted species known to attract butterflies and birds. Millicent spent most of her time outdoors as a result, and he often found Basil sitting on one of the benches, presumably seeking inspiration. 

Talk of agents, while precisely the endgame of this arrangement, caused Faraday’s heart to pang. Basil thrived the last few weeks with no other responsibilities to hamper his creativity. It wouldn’t be long before they turned on the radio and heard Doris Day or Vic Damone belting out one of Basil’s soulful ballads. He, rather. Basil’s success guaranteed the young man’s inevitable departure for New York or Hollywood, and Faraday becoming a back-burner memory.

Faraday simply wanted that dream to extend a while longer. Basil made his existence less lonely.

He blinked, and realized he’d put his hand on Basil’s shoulder without permission. Basil was silent about it, and hardly blinked when Faraday quickly pulled back. 

“I’d like to hear what you have so far, if you don’t mind,” Faraday said and settled into his chair.

“It’s never a bother. It’s because of you the music and lyrics come to me so easily now.” Basil squared his shoulders and faced the piano again. As he touched his fingertips to the keys, he turned back. “You don’t want to eat first?”

Faraday shook his head. His stomach fluttered too much from their proximity for him to keep anything down.

~*~

He wanted to tell Faraday not to feel embarrassed by their spontaneous contact. Basil rather liked it, in fact. Having little to no money in a mid-sized town guaranteed a mediocre social life. The young men working the factories enjoyed first pick of the single ladies, and sprang for the drive-in and ice cream sodas on payday. Basil’s music tutoring, while allowing him flexible hours, barely gave him enough to make rent. Therefore, he spent much of his youth on the sidelines, touch-starved and watching friends pair off.

Since moving into Faraday’s home, the two circled each other, filling the silence with small talk whenever Basil wasn’t at the piano. He let Ned’s talk of Faraday’s ulterior motives get to him, and every day Basil watched for signs like a lingering glance or an invitation to imbibe more than unusual. He listened to Basil’s in-progress compositions in polite silence and often applauded after the last note. He kept the pantry and the Frigidaire well stocked, and Basil never worried about paying a bill or a debt.

To this point, Faraday behaved. Basil was starting to hate it. He ended up channeling tonight’s frustration into his music, hitting the keys with more force than necessary. For the first time since beginning their arrangement, Faraday interrupted his piece.

“It sounds so angry, a sharp departure from everything else you’ve played for me.” Faraday actually looked concerned.

Basil laughed off his own aggression. “It could be that I’m tired. I’ll let this one sit a bit and I’ll play it for you tomorrow,” he said.

“I’m in the way.” Faraday put both feet on the floor to lift himself from his chair. “You were well into your own little world when I interrupted–”

Basil reached out this time, touching Faraday’s hand where it curled around the arm of his chair. The heat of their contact sent a jolt straight to Basil’s heart. The two men locked eyes, and Basil saw a softness there that spoke of a heart pining.

He could write lyrics for days, inspired by the color of Faraday’s eyes.

“I needed a break, and your coming home was well timed,” Basil said. “I’ve been at this piano since you left this morning. I’ve left once to eat and once to piss, and just barely at that. Now you know how focused I’ve been.”

Faraday laughed, softly. “It’s not worth wrecking your renal health, is it?”

“Or my sleep patterns.” Basil stood. “I’ll head upstairs now, and I promise when I am rested and ready you’ll hear an improved song.”

Basil retired, remembering Faraday’s offer to take advantage of the piano, no matter the hour.

~*~

Faraday illuminated his bedside lamp and checked his watch. Well past midnight, and the music floating up from the ground door was not coming from the radio. Basil must have given in to inspiration, setting aside sleep.

It sounded beautiful, even in parts. Faraday sat up in bed and listened as Basil’s deep voice joined the melody. He mostly hummed and sang in “la-las,” but sometimes the man called out an actual word or two. Dummy lyrics, Basil called them. Placemarkers for words that better suited the song. Right now, Faraday heard the same two words repeated, almost a siren’s call.

Come down… come downnnn. Cummm downnn. Then followed the rapid tapping of one note, like musical rain falling hard on Faraday’s head. The music drew him into full consciousness, and Faraday put a hand on his stomach. He remembered that he’d gone to bed hungry.

He’d worn his boxers and white undershirt to bed. Reaching for his red dressing gown, he cinched the belt around his waist as he padded downstairs. He wanted to tread quietly and not disturb Basil’s progress.

Faraday wasn’t expecting to see Basil at the piano, completely naked as he played. He paused at the foot of the stairs, stunned and unable to look away. Basil was a fixture at the instrument since his first day in residence, yet Faraday never fully grasped how the man put his entire body into his performances until now. He watched the flex and ripple of Basil’s shoulder and back muscles as he rocked with the music, and the cords in Basil’s arms tightened and relaxed as he danced his fingers across the keys. 

A work of art, creating art, and Faraday was left dumb and aroused. When the music ceased, Faraday released his breath.

Basil turned on the bench, and his bare thigh skidded and squealed against the wood. Sitting ramrod straight with his hands in his lap, he regarded Faraday with a smile and little indication of anything unusual. “I wondered if I’d see you tonight. Rather, this morning.” He flicked his gaze to Faraday’s wall clock. The slow tick tick, synchronized with the pendulum’s swing, filled the brief silence.

“I’m interrupting you, Basil. Forgive me.” Faraday backed up a step. “Goodnight.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Faraday. This is what you wanted, yes?” Basil asked.

Faraday’s heart pounded. His grasp on the banister turned slick. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Me, here. Under your roof and watchful eye.” When Basil stood he rested his arms at his sides, baring himself completely to Faraday. Such a beautiful specimen of man, symmetrical and taut. His skin glowed, and Faraday noticed smattering of moles and other marks along his chest and ribcage. He could trace patterns for hours if permitted, but now he averted his gaze to settle his yearnings.

“Faraday, look at me. Come here.”

He obeyed neither command. He was embarrassed, despite being dressed, and debating to retreat upstairs when Basil took his hand and pulled him deeper into the sitting room.

“You offered me a place in your home to satisfy your prurient interests,” Basil said.

Faraday shook his head. His breathing quickened and his body trembled. Basil gripped his hand tighter to steady him. Basil spoke the truth, but it only represented part of his motives. “I recognized your talent, Basil, and wanted to foster it.” Standing this close to Basil made it impossible for him to direct his attention elsewhere. The young man’s music rang in the background of Faraday’s thoughts, and his body… “If I have acted in any way as to give you discomfort–”

“You haven’t, though. I was starting to think you lost your nerve.” Basil let go and used both hands to tug at Faraday’s belt. “Would you have extended your invitation had you not found me attractive?” He loosened the knot and spread open Faraday’s robe, smiling down at the prominent tenting of Faraday’s boxer shorts. “Don’t deny it.”

“Basil. Mr. Anthony.” Words lodged in Faraday’s throat. His mind reeled with apologies over explanations. His body spoke a louder truth than his voice. “Yes,” he said finally. “I will admit my motives were not entirely honest; however, I greatly enjoy your music. You have a gift that deserves a greater audience than the Ramplings’ salon. 

“My invitation to host you was partly reparation, in my mind,” he continued, and didn’t react when Basil lifted his robe from his shoulders. It fell to the floor without a sound. “I failed the Ayres family, and for all the services I provide my patients it feels like I don’t do enough. That night you performed, you awakened in me so many emotions I hid away. I couldn’t leave the party without showing my appreciation.”

“Or,” Basil rested his hands on Faraday’s shoulders, picking at the straps of his undershirt, “maybe you wanted me to yourself. You tempted me with this beautiful antique piano and now you can listen to my music any time you wish.”

The words stung Faraday. “You’re not a prisoner, Basil. You’re free to come and go, free to leave for good if you wish.”

“Free,” Basil said, and smiled. “To do this as well.” He slanted his parted lips over Faraday’s and encouraged a long, exploratory kiss. The longer they stood together, the braver Faraday’s actions. He touched the man’s face first before venturing lower, listening for changes in Basil’s vocal cues before settling his hands at the small of his back. The music in head gained volume and he closed his eyes, wanting to lose himself in the moment. 

He sensed movement, and realized Basil steered him around in place and back toward the piano. “Bear in mind, Faraday,” Basil whispered in his ear, “I’m not just showing my appreciation. I want this, too.”

Faraday nodded, eyes still closed, as Basil guided him to sit with his back to the piano. Knees apart, arms straddling the open keyboard, Faraday took in slow, shallow breaths as Basil stroked his thighs. The room got suddenly colder, and Faraday looked down to see Basil pulling down the elastic waist of his shorts, freeing his cock.

Basil grasped him at the base, tucking the fabric under his balls. “It’s good for a musician to have a patron,” he said, “but what he needs more is a muse.” He nuzzled his face between Faraday’s legs for a moment before adding, “I’m fortunate to have both.”

He took Faraday deep into his mouth, and Faraday’s arms pressed down on several keys at once. The sound created was hardly melodic, yet almost appropriate. Loud, untamed, spontaneous. Like his stamina, unfortunately, all too brief. Basil’s skills in this sense rivaled his talents at the piano. He played Faraday with slow, smooth strokes, closing his mouth tighter at the precise moment Faraday climaxed. 

Breathless and limp, Faraday braced his arms harder on the keyboard for support before lurching forward. The notes issued sounded like a weak coda and he winced at the noise. Basil, rocking back on his heels, widened his bee-stung lips in a glossy smile. “That would have sounded much worse had I not tuned the piano for you,” he said.

“Goes to show you are better suited to play it.” Faraday was ready to give it to him. He felt a tug; Basil was helping him stand. “What are you doing?”

“This was just the first movement,” Basil said, and sat on the edge of Faraday’s chair. Spitting in his hand, he stroked his cock and beckoned Faraday closer. “The rest of this performance will be a more involved duet.”

Faraday let Basil tug him by his hips, and guide him to straddle Basil’s lap with his knees on the chair’s seat. Basil’s warm breath on his chest caused him to shiver, but it provided the perfect distraction for when Basil pushed the tip of his spit-wet prick inside him. Faraday dropped his head and bit his lip to keep from crying. He anticipated some discomfort, and berated himself for not preparing well enough to take Basil’s thick, amazing cock.

“It’s okay.” Basil’s whispers and praise soothed him. Basil’s hands stroking his chest gave him a rhythm to match. “Make all the noise you want,” he said. “Let me hear you sing.”

Rocking up and down on Basil’s cock, Faraday leaned back and trusted Basil’s arms around him. When he climaxed the second time, after Basil groaned out his own release, he heard nothing but his lover congratulating him for hitting such a high note.

~*~

Their arrangement continued, the only change being where Basil slept. Every night Faraday returned from surgery, Basil paused his composition and they dined together. Most nights they made love, after which Basil returned to the piano. Whether he dressed first depended on if Faraday joined him to listen. By month’s end, he’d completed and polished ten songs.

Faraday expected for Basil to receive a summons from an agency to discuss contracts and publishing, and when the day arrived he nonetheless dreaded the separation. Rather than accompany Basil to the train station, he stood with the young man at the open entrance to his home. They kissed and held each other tightly as they awaited Basil’s taxi. Faraday refused to make a scene in public. 

“Have a good life, dear boy. I will miss you.”

Basil scoffed, and brushed his lips over Faraday’s mustache. “I will see you in two weeks,” he said.

“You know damn well once Tin Pan Alley gets their claws in you they’re not letting go.” Faraday turned his head and buried his face in the crook of Basil’s neck. Whatever hid the coming tears. “You’ll be signing a lease on a new apartment in two weeks.”

“Firstly, my appointment isn’t in the Tin Pan. It’s a place called the Brill Building,” Basil said. “Second, nothing is guaranteed. I may very well be making a six-hour trip just to hear a man in a suit tell me no thanks. Faraday.” Basil clamped his hands on Faraday’s face and steered him so they stared each other in the eyes. Faraday saw the shine of unshed tears and blown pupils and a passion that rendered him speechless.

“I will see you in two weeks,” Basil repeated. Faraday nodded and imprinted on Basil’s face.

Two weeks turned to three, then four and more. Faraday threw himself into his work, volunteering for longer shifts and gladly substituting for physicians requesting leave. When at home he spent more time in the garden, putting distance between himself and the piano, which had quickly become another piece of furniture on which he piled random belongings. Millicent remained in residence among the flowers and the rosemary bush slowly sprawling across the far corner of Faraday’s property. After work, he’d sit out with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Millicent, as though sensing his distress, would sometimes hop into his lap for a cuddle.

“I suppose you miss him, too,” he said one afternoon on a rare full day off from the hospital. The administrator had forced the break on Faraday, scolding him for practically living in his office. Faraday conceded only to avoid an argument. He left the back kitchen window up with the radio turned up to enough to hear Dinah Shore’s program.

Orchestral music swelled, and the popular singer announced her next number, a brand new song from an up-and-coming composer. We’ll be hearing a lot from Basil Anthony, I promise you that, Dinah cheerily announced. This is “Doctor, Won’t You Heal My Broken Heart.”

Horns swelled, strings vibrated. Faraday sighed. “Well, if that isn’t a scalpel through the gut,” he said to Millicent, who meowed for clarification. “I didn’t expect him to return from his trip, is all. Basil was selling himself short. Talented as he is, of course an agent was going to snap him up and put him to work writing hit songs. A postcard would have been nice, though.” 

He jammed the cigarette into his mouth and lifted the cat to return to the garden. His whiskey neat was down to the last drop and a pot of canned vegetable soup simmered on the stove. A pathetic existence, but he owned it. He was dipping in the spoon to separate the clumps when he heard the front doorbell.

Faraday gave it a few seconds, knowing the postman was making his rounds. He laid the wooden spoon along the pot’s rim and went to gather up what was shoved through the slot. Two bills and a large, thick envelope postmarked from New York City.

He recognized Basil’s scrawl, and he swallowed back his heart as he tore open the package. He tipped the ragged edge toward his free hand and out spilled an open train ticket for New York, a key with an address label attached, and a short note of apology:

I hope this makes up for my lengthy neglect. When you come I’ll explain everything in person.

Behind him, Dinah Shore sang. I feel lower and lower every day we’re apart / Doctor, won’t you come and heal my broken heart?

Faraday closed his fist around the key. Yes, he could do that. 

The next morning, he packed a bag, locked up the house, and did just that.

Chapter Text

Agent Sevier, are you familiar with Project Blue Book?

Paul Sevier contemplated the question, his answer, and the ensuing conversation that led to this moment. Thinking back to the meeting between himself, his supervisor, and Captain Ruppelt, Paul feared he might have come off as too eager to cooperate. 

I may be, sir. I won’t lie and say that some people around here haven’t talked out of turn. If I had to guess, Blue Book is an offshoot of Project Sign?

He’d wanted to sound informed without implicating any one person as a security leak. After a pause, Captain Ruppelt of the USAF, also the Director of Project Blue Book, commended Paul on his observance before drawing him into confidence. Project Sign preceded Paul’s employment with the United States government, and the program taking its place greatly attracted him. After his service in Korea, he’d chosen national security as a career to make a difference, but until this point felt he’d yet to accomplish anything worthy of praise. That Captain Ruppelt thought him trustworthy enough for this line of work raised Paul’s spirits.

Normally we assign officers to each Air Force base, Sevier. For this particular mission, we want to place you in the thick of the action. We’ve received several reports of unidentified sightings in one concentrated area. Given the frequency, it’s urgent we investigate immediately. We’ve assigned you a partner, Agent Smith…

A copy of Agent Smith’s personnel file lay among Project Blue Book intel in the thick folder of documents marked CLASSIFIED on the bench seat of Paul’s black, unmarked sedan. It contained a thorough biography of his new partner, plus a grainy black and white photograph that looked dated. When asked for a more recent photo of the agent, the man from the records office shrugged and said, “If he answers to Smith, that’s how you’ll know it’s the right guy.”

Such cavalier attitudes, Paul thought, threatened national security. As he neared the house procured by the government, his home for the duration of his mission, he hoped this Agent Smith took the job as seriously as Paul himself intended.

It was just after sunset when Paul rolled his car to a stop at the edge of a gravel footpath, behind a similar vehicle with government plates. Light illuminated the lower front, curtained windows of the two-story cottage. Paul adjusted his glasses and noticed a shadow passing across them. The car’s headlights spraying the yard must have alerted Agent Smith, because the front door opened as Paul was reaching into the popped truck for his luggage.

Agent Smith, barefoot and casual in a white tee and dark slacks, came out to greet him. He stood about as tall as Paul’s six-foot-three with glowing skin and red hair that took on a golden corona in the cottage’s backlight. Not quite a copy of the file photograph, much more alive and in color. Paul winced in sympathy with the man’s every step, marveling at how Agent Smith easily walked the stone path without protection.

“Agent Sevier. You can call me Caleb.” 

“Caleb?” Paul tapped the top file in the stack of folders cradled in his right arm. “File says your name should be James.”

“James C. Smith, yes?” Paul confirmed it, and Caleb said, “Now you know my middle name, which I prefer.”

When Paul invited him to use his first name going forward, Caleb told him, “As you’re the lead on this project, I waited for you to take the first choice of rooms. I’ve stocked the kitchen, and if you’re hungry I cooked extra.”

Paul was starving; no need to hear what Caleb prepared, he’d dive right into it. He followed the man into the house and paused a moment, taking in his surroundings. He found modest decor in the living room, the furniture functional at best. No television in this common area, but an ancient wedding photo on the mantle, and most perplexing of all, an upright piano.

“I don’t play, do you?” he asked Caleb.

Caleb laughed. “No. From what I heard, the house’s last owner sold the place fully furnished. Guy moved to New York City, guess none of this fit.”

Paul nodded. Not really his concern. Upstairs Caleb gave him a brief tour of the sleeping quarters, advising him to mind the sawdust. “I was also informed they had the place renovated after purchase,” he said. “Used to be the only bathroom was on the lower floor, and now each of the bedrooms has its own en suite .”

“Good to know.” It meant no jockeying for prime position at the mirror every morning, though when Caleb turned and smiled it caused Paul’s heart to flutter. Not such a bad way to begin a day, cozied in one space brushing teeth. So lost was Paul in that fantasy when Caleb pushed open the door on the right that he yelped at the sight of a pair of glowing eyes in the center of the room.

Shit. Seconds later a timid meowing followed, and Caleb softly cursed while Paul swallowed down his escaping heart.

“How did you get up here without me seeing?” Caleb scolded the cat, scooping her into his arms. “This is Millicent,” he said. “One of them, anyway. I’m told she’s the descendant of the original Millicent who prowled around here and,” Caleb stroked her belly, “she feels like she might be due at any moment.”

Terrific. “Maybe we should drop her off at a veterinarian’s clinic? Get her out of the way,” Paul said. He wanted as little outside interference as possible. To invite a house call risked exposing sensitive information to a person who enjoyed gossip.

“I wouldn’t worry. The second I put Millicent down we’re likely to not see her again. Observe.” Caleb set the cat, her claws outstretched, on the hardwood floor and she waddled away. “She’s mainly an outdoor animal,” he added. “Self-sufficient.”

Paul studied Caleb. “How long have you been here that you know these things?”

“I arrived two days ago. There’s meatloaf and mashed potatoes with gravy downstairs. I’ll fix you a plate.”

“Sure.” Paul turned to one side as Caleb stepped past. It was presumed, then, Paul was taking this room, and he was too tired to debate. Knowing Agent Smith had a leg up on their work and living space bothered them; as the lead, he wanted to be the lead and give the briefings rather than receive them. Five minutes into his assignment, and he was already thrown off by renovated quarters, an unauthorized cat, and a partner who set off his antennae.

Not just over his handsome appearance, either.

~*~

“Did you see combat in Korea, Paul?”

Paul scraped his last bite of meatloaf through a streak of brown gravy before devouring it. “I was fortunate, never sent to the front lines,” he said. “My specialty is linguistics, so I was assigned to assist with intelligence. I learned enough Korean and Chinese to communicate with prisoners of war, and friendlies…” he handed Caleb his empty plate with a nod of thanks, “It’s why I believe I was chosen for Project Blue Book. If the aliens speak a different language, hopefully I can decipher it.”

“Assuming we get to meet any.” Caleb scooted back his chair and turned toward the sink. They were sitting at a dinette in the kitchen. Paul wiped down the Formica surface with his sleeve while Caleb gave the dish a quick rinse. He offered Paul another drink while he was up and returned with two glass Coke bottles. Paul glimpsed at the open refrigerator when Caleb fetched and counted at least a dozen in the door. Man had to be an addict.

“You smoke?” Paul offered him a cigarette from his soft pack and withdrew when Caleb declined. “What about you? Did you serve?”

Caleb said nothing at first. Paul watched the man’s face, studying how his eyes flicked side to side and the brief moment when Caleb diverted his attention to the transistor radio on the counter. Buddy Knox’s “Party Doll” finished up and Elvis Presley’s “All Shook Up” followed. He apologized for the lapse, explaining, “Sorry. It’s just that I like this song. Elvis really is something, huh?”

“He’s okay.” Paul was being nice. “He’s the star of the moment, but all his songs sound alike to me. I doubt we’ll be talking about him ten years from now.”

Caleb pulled hard on his Coke, arching an eyebrow. He stifled a belch and said, “In answer to your question, which I didn’t forget, I received a hardship deferment. I was actually in the middle of basic training when my father died of a heart attack. I had two younger brothers under the age of fourteen. My unit got shipped out and they put me on a bus back to Boston.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Caleb smiled; it didn’t reach his eyes. “Seems like a lifetime ago. Anyway, what’s the plan for tomorrow, and every day forward?”

They lingered at the dinette, drinking another Coke apiece while Paul summarized all the interviews with the local eyewitnesses. He wanted first to survey every known sighting area before drawing up a schedule. “If there’s anything that might debunk a story or two,” he said, “I don’t want to waste time talking with somebody who doesn’t have useful information.”

“What sort of things are you looking for?”

“Water samples, for one,” Paul said. “If somebody’s dipping into a well with traces of lead in the water, I want to make sure that person wasn’t hallucinating.” He nodded at Caleb. “You have all your equipment ready?” He referred to the polygraph machine Caleb would be monitoring when they interviewed the locals.

Caleb bit his lower lip. “Yes, it’s in the case now. I’ll be happy to demonstrate it for you first if you like. I’m thinking you want to transport it rather than bring people here.”

“I’d prefer little to no traffic in this house,” Paul told him. He considered the people they would meet, mostly farmers and other middle-to-lower class folks, might feel nervous in a strange place while strapped to a lie detector. In their homes, at least, they’d hopefully find comfort in familiar surroundings.

“The machine is portable, so it’s not an issue.” Caleb exhaled, then added, “Assuming somebody is suffering lead poisoning and unaware, we’ll help them, right?”

“Of course.” Paul meant to say more, but the music ceased and an announcement interrupted his thoughts. This concludes our programming day here at WDLF. We thank you for listening, and hope you will tune in bright and early at six a.m. for The Hour of Power. 

Midnight already. The national anthem began to play. Caleb looked at Paul. “Should we stand?”

“You can switch it off. I’m beat,” Paul said. “Anything else I should know about the house before we proceed?

Caleb stretched his arms above his head. The hem of his shirt popped from its tuck and flashed his pale, taut belly. “Nearest neighbor is about a mile away, but you probably picked up on that driving here. Only the upstairs rooms have air conditioning units. If you want to keep cool down here, open a window.”

“What about outside?” The backyard wasn’t lit, but Paul detected the outline of a shed.

“It used to be a garden, but it’s overgrown. They send somebody every few weeks to mow, but we should not expect to see anybody soon. The shed’s empty. I think that’s where Millicent hides out,” Caleb said.

“She’s probably there now,” Paul said, “pumping out kittens. We ought to check in the morning.”

Caleb gathered their empty bottles. “I’ll handle that, Paul. You have more important work,” he said, and looked around the kitchen. He may as well have smoke issuing from his ears.

“Looking for something?”

“The bin…” Caleb met Paul’s gaze, looking blank. “For the empties.”

Paul shook his head. “Just trash them. I don’t plan on taking any bottles back for deposit. You got what, eight cents total there? Coca-Cola can eat the loss.”

“Sure.” Caleb laughed.

~*~

Caleb Smith’s quirks aside, he proved himself a competent assistant to Paul. Caleb took diligent notes at every alleged site of a UFO visit while Paul took photos with an instant-film camera issued to him by Project Blue Book. The pictures weren’t of stellar quality, but it saved having to convert the downstairs bathroom into a darkroom. 

“Nobody’s using well water. That’s a promising sign,” Caleb said after their first reconnaissance expedition. “Let’s hope there aren’t any alcoholics or dope smokers on the roster.”

Paul ran down his contact sheet. “We’re interviewing a pair of nuns first,” he said.

“No comment.”

Caleb had an odd sense of humor, but Paul found it endearing, especially in the evenings when they unwound from work. During their first week partnered for the mission, they’d linger over meals that Caleb prepared, then talk through the night while Paul smoked and Caleb sucked down Coke after Coke. Every morning, Paul woke with the sunrise and looked out his window into the shaggy backyard. Once or twice, he spotted Caleb padding out toward the shed with a plate of something in his hand. Feeding the pregnant cat, Paul assumed. The other man’s kindness toward the somewhat feral animal touched him.

On the first morning of their second week, Paul put on his glasses, opened his personal journal, and jotted down a few notes. His observations of late focused mainly on Caleb and his various eccentricities, not so much as evidence to report back to Ruppelt and Caleb’s superiors but as a means of supporting memories he wanted to keep. At best, he had maybe one more week of this mission before the government closed this branch of Project Blue Book and separated the two. Paul would likely never see the ginger-haired man again, and to ask for the man’s contact information seemed inappropriate.

I’m watching Caleb standing just outside the shed, cradling Millicent in his arms as a father would with his newborn son. Although I haven’t known him very long, I’m confident in saying that his patience and compassion are without limits. He cares as much for this moody stray as he does for every one of our subjects. His soothing voice, used to calm the minors and elderly interviewed for this project, prior to the application of the polygraph, still echoes in my head hours later. I’d be remiss in saying Caleb’s voice, in addition to his presence in general, hasn’t brought me calm during this project’s more stressful moments.

Yet, there are instances where I wonder if Caleb is succumbing to invisible demons of his own. Last night as we retired, I heard Caleb talking to himself in his room. He was becoming increasingly agitated. He repeated words - “it’s time” and “we need to move forward.” Perhaps the patience I observe during interviews is wearing thin? In a way, I understand his frustration. I had hoped to experience evidence of extraterrestrial life in this alleged hot spot, but so far the skies are clear and quiet.

I am quite fond of Caleb, and I wonder–

Paul heard a door slam downstairs, and he slapped the leather bound book shut. He quickly dressed and joined his fellow agent in the kitchen, where Caleb had out a carton of eggs and an open loaf of bread. 

“Your usual?” he asked over his shoulder, adjusting the heat under the skillet. On the counter, coffee bubbled up in the clear cover knob of the electric percolator. Paul smiled, ready for a cup.

“Yes, thanks.” He got out two mugs and stood close, waiting for the percolator to finish brewing. “I could’ve taken care of the coffee this morning. No need for you to do everything around the house.”

Caleb cracked two eggs directly into the pan. “I’m proving a point.”

“That we should take our coffee weak?” Seriously. Caleb’s last attempt lacked flavor.

Two more eggs joined the others and Caleb scrambled them. “I filled the drip basket properly this time. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised,” he said, then nodded toward the toaster. “If you want to help…”

Paul caught on, and opened the side flaps of the toaster. While the first two slices browned, he set plates close for Caleb to distribute the eggs. Their arms brushed together for only a second and Paul held his breath, his body aware of the rising heat.

It wasn’t coming from the toaster.

He caught Caleb’s bright gaze, and returned the other man’s smile. They were assigned by their respective superiors to share the same space, and work together to uphold national security. Paul saw none of that now, being too wrapped up in the domestic comfort of the moment. Caleb Smith was his co-worker, and here he was bickering about coffee as a man would to his wife.

“Toast is ready,” Caleb said.

“Right.” Paul got out the bread before it turned black and divided the yield. Poured the coffee and pushed the sugar bowl toward Caleb. Two spoonfuls, no cream–that was the agent’s “usual.”

Breakfast proceeded without much talk, other than to discuss the day’s scheduled interviews. All through the meal, Paul stole brief glances at his partner as though attempting to read his mind, if Caleb’s thoughts aligned with his. Did he savor these peaceful mornings as well, or focus on the job? 

“If there’s anything you want to say,” Paul began, and fixed on Caleb as the other man looked up between bites of egg.

“About?”

“Your role in the project. If you feel we should be doing more than talking to farmers about flying saucers–”

Caleb cut in, “The job is fine, Paul. It’s merely data collection, but it’s not unimportant work.” He finished his toast. “Yeah, I’ll admit it’d be cool to actually encounter a UFO, but maybe we’re not quite ready for that.”

“Do you think any of these people are telling the truth?” So far in their investigation, the majority of accounts corroborated with each other. Not that many details about an unusual object flying in the night sky existed. 

Caleb nodded. “You’ve seen the polygraph results,” he said. “Everybody is collected and succinct when talking about their sightings. In the end we may discover it was an astronomical event, or somebody playing a prank, but,” he widened his eyes, “I believe people want alien life to exist. We’re naturally curious.”

“We also fight with each other.” Paul flashed back to his time in Korea. A little over a decade passed, too, since the entire world finished a devastating war. “Why welcome alien beings into that?”

“You make a good point. Maybe the aliens are waiting for us to calm down.”

Paul helped clear the table. “I saw you holding Millicent earlier, from my bedroom window. How’s she doing?”

“See for yourself.” Caleb gestured to the large downstairs bath, which held a beautiful antique tub. Paul moved closer and looked inside to find Millicent curled up at one end.

“She might be ready to give birth,” Caleb said, coming up beside Paul. “We ought to pick up a box of cigars when we’re in town.”

Paul laughed along with the sentiment, though he figured Caleb would settle for another six-pack of Coke. “Maybe a blanket, too,” he said, “to keep them warm.”

“Paul?”

“Mm?”

Paul’s heart stopped when he realized he’d put his arm around Caleb’s waist without thinking.

~*~

Not a word was said of Paul’s indiscretion. They interviewed their next three subjects as scheduled, then purchased a few staples at the A&P before returning to the cottage to collate their notes. Paul kept his head down and eyes averted from Caleb as much as possible. He was relieved for his partner’s silence in the matter, but not yet over his embarrassment. He figured he wouldn’t be able to face Caleb again at least until morning.

What is wrong with me? He never behaved without decorum in front of a co-worker.

“Paul?”

Paul was too focused on his interview notes to answer right away. That, and still berating himself for his gaffe. It took Caleb tapping on the kitchen table with the corner of a food package to get his attention.

“I asked you a question.” Caleb held four boxed TV dinners. “Turkey or fried chicken?”

“Oh,” Paul said, closing his folder. No home-cooked meal tonight, then. Of course, Paul knew he shouldn’t expect it every night. “Chicken is good. What’s the dessert on that one?”

“Apple cobbler.”

Not the chocolate cake. Disappointing. “Chicken’s fine.”

Caleb slipped two foil-covered trays into the oven. “Seems weird to eat a TV dinner when there’s no television in the house,” he said. “Why do you suppose they didn’t equip the house with one?”

“Who knows? I don’t watch much television anyway, except for Dragnet .” Paul pulled out two Cokes, then put one back. Water for himself tonight, he decided. “Do you have a favorite show?”

Caleb was watching the tomato-shaped timer on the counter. He looked up and smiled. “What can I say? I do love Lucy.”

As though seconding the motion, a loud meow sounded from the bathroom, along with a few softer yowls. Both men, clearly having forgotten Millicent, rushed forward to discover the cat stretched out in the tub with several babies nestled against her side.

“What a miracle,” Caleb murmured, and counted out six tiny bodies jockeying for mother’s milk. “They look like adorable wet rats.”

Paul reached out a hand, but slowly withdrew it. Millicent glared at them with a no-nonsense gleam in her eyes. “They’re all moving, they seem to be fine,” he said. “We should give them some privacy.”

“We should celebrate.”

Paul closed the bathroom door while Caleb darted for one of the high cupboards, and watched the man pull out a bottle of rum. “I was saving this for our last night,” Caleb said, “but the birth of sextuplet kittens surely trumps that.”

“Indeed.” Why not celebrate the lives before them, seeing as how alien life presently eluded their watch? He accepted the small glass containing a shot of rum and toasted Millicent’s good fortune. “Show me the bottle?” he then asked after the amber liquid’s sting faded in his throat. “Cuban. No wonder it’s good.”

Caleb examined the label. “I’ve always wanted to go there. I’ve seen pictures. Such beautiful beaches and scenery.”

“What’s stopping you?” Paul asked. “Maybe you can put in for leave soon. Take a vacation.” He was ready for one himself, and a week or two in a sunny locale appealed to him. Going alone, not so much.

“Oh, you know, because–” Caleb shut down abruptly, catching Paul’s stare. Rather than finish his thought, he gave an awkward laugh and said, “It’s probably better to wait and see where the job takes me next.”

Paul watched the flicker of embarrassment in Caleb’s features, the quirked-up lip and softening around the eyes. It looked like a silent plea to change the subject, so Paul obliged. “Should we name them?” he asked, crooking his head toward the bathroom door. “Six kittens… and there were seven dwarves, so maybe we apply the best names to their personalities.”

“I couldn’t saddle any animal with a name like Dopey,” Caleb said, and poured one more shot for each of them before capping the bottle. “I say we give it a few days and see which names suit which cat.”

Paul thought they all looked grumpy at the moment, but it likely had to do with the stress of being born and competing with each other for one of their mother’s teats. “Sounds good,” he said, and bade Caleb goodnight, carrying the slight buzz with him upstairs to bed. 

~*~

“It’s working. You have to trust me, is all.”

Paul cracked open one eye and stilled his breath. The rum should have knocked him out, but he lay in bed, sleep still a stranger. Caleb was talking to himself again, likely in his sleep. He was getting louder, aggressive. Paul half-expected to hear a table lamp or some other object smacked to the ground. 

“Caleb?” he called out, and the noise ceased. A sense of dread washed over Paul; he hoped he hadn’t embarrassed Caleb, but it was either call attention to the talk or risk hearing something sensitive and not his business. This confirmed Caleb was at least semi-conscious, and with the talk over Paul relaxed against his pillow and tried again to sleep.

About a minute passed when he heard his door creak open, then, “Paul?”

Paul moved to switch on his lamp, but Caleb spoke quickly, “Leave it off.” Paul obliged and sat up, pulling the sheets to cover his bare chest. Moonlight streaming in from the top half of his window illuminated Caleb’s body. The man wore only a pair of briefs and his hair looked disheveled, like he’d been digging at his scalp while arguing with himself. His face, however, displayed beatific calm. 

“You said you’ve watched me out your window,” Caleb said.

The window AC unit roared softly, blowing cool air into the room. It did little to assuage the heat creeping up Paul’s neck. “I-I wasn’t spying on you, Caleb. I noticed how you were taking care of the cat–”

“It’s fine. I’m not mad.” Caleb moved to the side of the bed with more space. Paul reached for his glasses on the nightstand and once again Caleb stalled them. “You look nice without them.”

Flattered, Paul nonetheless wanted them. “I see better with them,” he said.

“I wouldn’t want them broken.”

Before Paul could ask how, Caleb perched on the edge of the bed and leaned into Paul’s personal space. Their lips met and the heat Paul kept banked under the surface of his skin escalated. This time he gave no thought to improprieties when he put his hands on Caleb’s waist, or when he moved one to open the sheets and allow Caleb to tangle their bodies together. 

“Caleb,” Paul began, “are you sure?”

“Yes.” Caleb brushed back Paul’s bangs and moved his lower lip along the hairline. “I know how it is, hiding your feelings and always worried. You weren’t the only one watching, Paul.”

“If anybody finds out–”

Caleb silenced him with a hard kiss, then said, “I’m not saying a word. This is a safe space. I want you, and if you want me you can have me.”

Paul bared his throat and sighed as Caleb traced his jawline with light kisses. Let this be safe. “I do want you.”

Caleb relaxed, and Paul used the moment to roll them until he was on top. The tacit consent of Caleb’s kiss unleashed weeks of repressed desires, and Paul intended to take everything offered to him. 

He touched everywhere from Caleb’s sharp cheekbones to the tight-muscled backs of his thighs, all the while slotting their clothed erections together. When the ache spread up his chest he shoved his and Caleb’s briefs to their knees with one hand while he stretched toward his nightstand with the other for what he needed. Keeping Caleb on his back, Paul pushed up the man’s knees to his chest, his hands sticky with petroleum jelly as he prepared them both.

“You are sure?” Silly to ask in this position, yes. Paul slid his slicked-up cock along Caleb’s hole, ready to fill it. Caleb had said yes, in multiple ways, but he needed to hear it one more time.

Caleb gaped his mouth open, his eyes wide and soft. He breathed out the “yes” and Paul pushed in slowly, savoring the heat.

“I wanted you to know, Paul,” Caleb said, panting as they moved together, “I’m fond of you, too.”

~*~

Paul woke the next morning, cold and alone with the sheets kicked to the foot of the bed. He considered the possibility that he had dreamed of making love with Caleb, if not for the residue of petroleum jelly on his crotch and faint scent of the other man’s soap on the pillowcase. That, and the indentation in the mattress next to him which suggested Caleb woke not too long ago.

Probably downstairs preparing breakfast. Paul rushed through his morning ablutions and dressed, determined to head off Caleb before he cracked the first egg. He ought to handle cooking duty this time, if only to express…what? His thanks, his affection. At the very least, he wanted control of the percolator and a cup of coffee as he preferred it. Wonderful though last night had been, they’d have to discuss it and Paul required caffeine and clarity of mind.

He was buttoning his shirt when he glanced out the window at an unusual sight. Why was Caleb taking a plate of food out to the shed? Surely Millicent hadn’t hauled her kittens back out there? He went down and checked the clawfoot tub, accounting for the mother and all her babies.

Paul’s radar pinged. His pulse increased with every step through the backyard toward the shed. Unless Caleb was feeding the tom, something was very wrong.

Caleb exited the shed just as Paul touched the handle, and he froze. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I came here to ask you that. The cats are still in the house, so why are you–”

“Raccoon,” Caleb cut in. “I heard a noise from the kitchen and came out to shoo it away.”

“With a plate of eggs?”

Caleb looked down at the empty plate in his hand, bits of dried yolk smearing the surface. The hint of guilt etched in the man’s features stabbed at Paul’s senses. Caught in a lie.

“Caleb, you can’t feed every animal that crawls through here,” Paul scolded. “You want to attract bears next?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just–Paul, wait!”

But Paul pushed past Caleb and barged into the shed, prepared to scare off a possibly rabid critter. Instead, he found a red-haired man in a suit sitting in the corner, his hands and ankles bound and moaning against a cloth gag. Upon making contact, the man’s vocalizing pitched high and he squirmed.

“Caleb,” Paul’s anger roiled, “what the hell is going on? Who is this?”

Caleb sighed, falling back. “That is Agent James C. Smith,” he said. “And this… is for your own good, Paul. I’m sorry.”

Paul turned in his direction, and the world turned dark after Caleb ripped off his glasses and punched him in the face.

~*~

“Hey, Caleb, he’s awake. Got a nice bruise, too.”

Paul swallowed, tasting bile and squinting as a spike of pain shot horizontally through his head. The cold sensation on his shoulder, he realized, was a hard surface. Maybe a table, but likely the floor. He opened his eyes and blinked, making the best of his blurred vision. He guessed the kitchen by the lighting and the color of the floor tile.

The man hovering over him was neither Caleb nor the hostage Agent Smith, but he was generous enough to return Paul his glasses. His sight regained, Paul looked up at the stranger with the shaved head and full beard and wide, eerie smile. Wait… was the man in his underwear? Paul gaped at his white tank and skin-tight shorts.

“Gotta hand it to Caleb. I totally underestimated his right hook,” the man told Paul. “You were out for twenty minutes.”

“Who are you?”

The man introduced himself as Nathan Bateman, “CEO of Blue Book,” and presented his hand. Paul chose instead to touch his lip, checking for blood. Nathan withdrew his hand and sighed. “You have many questions, I bet, but can I say first–”

“You’re with Project Blue Book?” Paul asked. “I wasn’t informed they were sending in another agent.”

“I’m not with the government, pal. My company is private.” Nathan looked over his shoulder. “I deal in technology. Digital communication, personal computers. I was looking into crypto but Caleb nixed that idea.”

“Crypto?” Caleb hit him hard . Nothing made sense. Paul shoved the kneeling man away and tried to sit up, but pain lanced his skull again and he cried out.

“Nathan, leave him alone!” 

Laying back on the floor, Paul spotted first Caleb’s shoes, then the rest of him as he dropped to Paul’s side. His expression contrite, he touched Paul’s cheek and winced with him at Paul’s flinch. A complete one-eighty from his earlier actions. “Hey,” he said softly. “How are you feeling?”

“Inquisitive.”

Nathan barked out a laugh. “Goes without saying,” he said, stretching to his full height before heading to the refrigerator.

Caleb glared up at him. “Nathan, how about you keep an eye on Agent Smith? He’s set up on the couch,” he said, before turning back to Paul. He waited for Nathan to take two Coke bottles out to the living room before speaking again. 

“Paul, I realize there’s a lot to unpack here, but our time is running short. I can summarize everything, or–”

“I’m asking the questions,” Paul barked just as loud, “and you’ll afford me all the time I want.” In punctuating that demand, he jerked his face away from Caleb’s outstretched fingertips.

“Okay.” Caleb sounded hurt, and Paul tried not to care about it. The other man rolled back to sit on the floor next to Paul and crossed his legs. “Go.”

“No.” Paul inhaled deeply first, pushing the air out slowly. “Not like this.”

~*~

Paul had watched Caleb set up the polygraph enough times to configure it himself. Sitting at the kitchen table, he secured the cuff to Caleb’s arm and adjusted the machine. Caleb was the picture of calm, his unsmiling face all but daring Paul to ask him anything.

Not smug, but definitely unafraid. We’ll see about that.

“Why did you hit me?”

Caleb looked chagrined. “I panicked, and I am so sorry,” he said. “You weren’t meant to find out all of this the way it happened. Believe me, the last thing I wanted was to cause you harm.”

“What is your real name?” Paul asked.

“Caleb Smith.” The needle remained steady.

“Do you work for the United States government?”

“No. I work for Nathan Bateman’s company.”

“Everything you told me while we were partnered,” Paul said, “your father dying, the basic training… was any of it true?”

“I embellished my life history to suit the persona I presented to you, yes, but I didn’t lie every time.” Caleb looked at him. “I didn’t lie about wanting you.”

Paul watched the polygraph. “Are you in collusion with the government of any country or with any organization deemed an enemy of the United States?

Caleb lifted one side of his mouth in a smirk. “You mean like the Russians?”

“I’m asking the quest–”

“No,” Caleb said. “Nathan and I are not treasonous.”

“Yet you willfully abducted a government agent and kept him hostage in the backyard shed,” Paul said, “and assumed his identity.” Assaulted another agent, too. “These are federal offenses.”

Caleb nodded, gaze cast downward. “I detained Agent Smith in order to take over his position as your assistant…fuck. Paul,” he looked up to capture Paul’s attention, “I’m not an enemy of the state, or an alien being. I’m from the future.”

Paul leaned back in his chair, processing the confession. The polygraph needle stayed on its straight-lined course. 

“Nathan named his company Blue Book after the project, when he founded it in the year 2014,” Caleb continued. “He started it as, well, how do you explain the Internet to somebody from 1957?”

Internet. More weird words. “Try,” Paul said.

Caleb tracked his gaze all around the kitchen; he may as well have steam pushing out his ears. “Let’s just say Nathan offers special computer services and phones that work like walkie-talkies but have a global range. Does that make sense?” Paul nodded to move the story forward, and Caleb added, “When certain files from Project Blue Book became declassified, Nathan started collecting them. He’s interested in making contact with extraterrestrial life. When I became his COO, I learned about his experiments in time travel. He’s truly a brilliant mind.

“In my own research about Project Blue Book, I found your writings.” Caleb turned in his chair and that’s when Paul noticed the small duffel bag by the wall. Caleb stretched for it and pulled out a series of leather bound notebooks that Paul instantly recognized.

“Those… those are my private journals!” Paul stood, pushing back his chair. “Where did you get those?”

Caleb clutched them to his chest as though claiming them. “They were donated to the Library of Congress as part of your estate. Don’t ask how Nathan got a hold of them, he has his ways.” Caleb paused, then, “Paul, you’re not alive in my time.”

“I should think not. 2014?” Paul laughed. “I’d be close to ninety, and I’ll admit I don’t keep healthy habits now.”

He joked, of course, but the unshed tears in Caleb’s eyes gave him pause. He settled down and gestured to hear more.

“In the original timeline, Paul, you die in 1960 by your own hand.” Caleb’s voice cracked. He pointed toward the living room. “That man in there, Agent James Caleb Smith, is my great-uncle. In the original timeline, the two of you worked from this cottage for Project Blue Book. Agent Smith decided to snoop around and he found your journal and read older passages referring to your previous boyfriend, and he turned you in. You became a victim of the Lavender Scare, Paul, and it destroyed your career and eventually your life.”

Caleb flipped through one of the books. “I read everything you wrote for this project and your other work, and it broke my heart to think somebody in my family caused you so much pain, Paul,” he said. “Once Nathan perfected his time travel devices, I decided what I wanted to change first.”

“I wanted to kill Hitler.” 

Both men turned to the doorway where Nathan leaned, drinking a Coke. He let out a belch and said, “Man, I’m going to miss the original Coke. So much better before they fucked around with the formula. Hey, is there any of that good Cuban rum left, we can mix it…” Nathan then shrugged at their hostile faces. “Your asshole gruncle’s fine, Caleb,” he said. “I’ll let you two finish up.”

Nathan disappeared, leaving Paul to ponder this strange conversation. He set up the polygraph himself and couldn’t accuse Caleb of cheating the machine. Being from another time explained some of Caleb’s quirks. The man no doubt learned enough about the Fifties to get by, but didn’t quite fit. Of all the travesties in history Caleb could have prevented, he chose saving Paul.

Why?

“Caleb,” Paul said, leaning forward, “when we were in bed together last night–”

“Wait, what?” Nathan cried from the other room. 

Caleb banged his fist on the table. “Nathan, fuck off!” he shouted. After a beat, he focused on Paul with restraint in his voice. “Paul, Nathan and I aren’t lovers. We work together. I’m gay, he isn’t. He prefers his… robot ladies.” 

He sighed. “Going to bed with you wasn’t part of the plan to save your life. I came to you because I wanted to, because I like you. Very much,” he said. “Now that I’ve been with you, I don’t want you to die. Nathan and I have to go back to our present time and I want you to come with us. Please?”

No need to check the polygraph this time. Caleb dipped his hand into the bag again and pulled out two devices that resembled wristwatches, but more like something from a Flash Gordon comic book. “That’s how you travel through time?” Paul asked. He was afraid to touch the one Caleb offered him. One wrong move and zap . Dinosaurs.

“I’ll walk you through it, Paul, but I hope you say yes. My present… it’s not a hundred percent kind to people like us but it’s much better than it is in 1957.” Caleb pleaded with him with wide, watery eyes. “You can start over, work for Blue Book. There’s much to learn, but you’re brilliant and you’ll catch on quickly.” He stretched his uncuffed arm out for Paul, grasping his hand. 

“When I thought you were talking to yourself, you were actually communicating with your boss with this thing.” Paul indicated the travel watch.

“Yes.”

“Did you read my current journal?” Caleb’s wording last night, fond , made him suspicious.

Caleb nodded. “Some of the entries in your last journal changed when I changed the timeline,” he said. “I feel the same way. Paul,” he held up his cuffed arm, “I like you and I want you to come to the future. Will you?”

“Have we made alien contact in 2014?”

“It’s actually 2023 where we are now,” Caleb said and smiled. He took off the cuff and attached it to Paul. “It may happen, it may not. If it didn’t, would you still come and be with me?”

Paul took a deep breath and looked into Caleb’s eyes. A chance to see the future, make first contact, be himself with another man… unafraid. It seemed like a dream, and he’d know. It was his.

“I would,” Paul said, “and I will.”

The needle didn’t move.

Chapter Text

The first car to pull up alongside him produced a long arm covered with a thick wool sleeve and a windblown mop of dark brown hair though the driver side window. Big ears and crooked teeth. The man should have looked a fright, but it all worked nicely on him. 

The man smiled up at Jim with a touch of melancholy in his deep brown doe eyes. “Where you headed, Mac?”

Jim Farrell was walking backward with his thumb out, and slowed his steps while the driver matched his cadence, slowing the car to a crawl. Jim didn’t much care for the nickname, but he liked walking in the dark in a strange country less.

“Anywhere is fine,” he said. “I can give you money for petrol.”

The driver leaned further out the door, almost to where he might tumble out and leave the car to roll away. “Petrol, eh?” he mocked, albeit pleasantly, then smiled. “Nice accent. Dublin?”

“Enniscorthy.” 

“Is it close to Dublin?”

Jim shrugged. They couldn’t have this conversation with both of them in the car? “A bit over a hundred kilometers.”

The driver huffed. Right, they didn’t do the metric system here. “Well, we’re going all the way to San Francisco, but we’re stopping tonight near Appalachia, then on to Chicago. You’re welcome to hop in and keep me awake for the first leg of the drive. What’s your name, petrol man from Enniscorthy?”

We? “Jim Farrell.” Jim moved his suitcase from one hand to the other.  

“Sounds Irish enough, it checks out,” the driver said, then stuck out his hand and Jim shook it. “Name’s Al Cody. Good to meet you.” Al turned his head. “Back there’s Llewyn, but he’s sleeping off a drunk.”

Jim leaned toward the back of the sedan and caught the outline of another man, stretched across the seat, dead to the world.

“What you waiting for?” Al asked. “I’m burning petrol here.”

~*~

“So, Jim Farrell.”

“So, Al Cody.”

“Why is a man from Enniscorthy in the county of…?” Al prompted. 

“Wexford,” said Jim.

“Wexford,” Al echoed, “hitchhiking toward the Manhattan Bridge in the middle of the afternoon?”

Jim slouched on the passenger side of the front bench seat, turned a tattered envelope in his hands. “It’s a rather sad story, about a man who made a rash and foolish decision and soon afterward decided to compound his problem by running away from it.”

“I specialize in sad stories. I’m a musician. Him, too. We’re a couple of sad sacks.” Al nodded at the rear view, which reflected an image of the still-snoozing Llewyn. “We still have a ways to go before we stop for the night. I don’t mind hearing if you don’t mind tellin’.”

Because Al seemed nice, and Jim figured he might not ache as much inside with the weight of the past on his heart, he spilled. Across New Jersey, he detailed the story of his introduction to Eilis Lacey through friends, and their courtship in Ireland. He told Al of how he’d fallen in love with her and begged her to stay in Ireland, rather than return to Brooklyn where she’d set up a life for herself prior to her sister’s death. He told Al of the day he intended to formally ask for her hand and instead discovered a Dear Jim letter slipped under his door.

“All that time,” Al said, after Jim summarized the contents of the letter in his hand, “she was married to some other guy? She didn’t tell anybody?”

Jim smoothed out the wrinkles in the paper. Dried tear stains rendered some words illegible, but no matter to Jim. He’d memorized the damn thing. “Not even her mother, until the day before she left Ireland. I learned that fact when the woman came around for tea, ostensibly to seek my family’s forgiveness for embarrassing us,” he said.

“Why? It wasn’t the mother’s fault.” Al flicked his gaze at Jim before turning back to traffic. “Unless her doing that’s some kind of Irish custom.”

That gave Jim cause to laugh. “Your last name’s Cody, which is Irish in origin, and you don’t know?”

Al flashed his crooked smile. Quite endearing. “My father wasn’t around much, and my mother’s family are Eastern European,” he said. “Were something like this to happen in our family, Mama would spit on the ground and we’d never speak her name again.”

“Well, I suppose I’m a masochist,” Jim said, and continued the story post-letter. He booked passage to America, arranging for no accommodations in advance. He had no family to speak of in the country, and he wasn’t about to bother the priest who sponsored Eilis. He came with the express purpose of hearing an explanation from Eilis herself, and an apology.

“Four weeks I spent crossing the ocean,” Jim said. “Slept third class with a flatulent, snoring bunkmate. Must have shit out ten kilos of water weight the first week, the seas were so rough.” He clenched in his seat, still sore. To think he’d once confided in Eilis about his yearning to travel. What he wouldn’t give to snap his fingers and be home.

Enough time passed for the ship story to be funny, he supposed, and Al’s amused reaction brought some levity to his memories. “I was angry and miserable,” he said, “and all I wanted was for Eilis Lacey Fiorello to look me in the bloody eye and tell me why –”

Behind them, the comatose Llewyn suddenly groaned and shifted. Jim realized his volume and breathed in for calm. “Tell me why,” he continued in a near whisper, “she led me on. She was married when I met her, and she could easily have declined my overtures. Had I known, I probably wouldn’t have pursued her.”

“What happened when you saw her?” Al’s long face softened, looking rounder now with his eyes widened, anticipating the story’s climax.

“Nothing,” Jim said, and stuffed the letter into the inside pocket of his jacket. “I never spoke to her. I was steps from the address where I was told she lived, waiting across the street. I watched her come out of this brownstone with a dark-haired fellow I assumed was her husband. They were smiling and holding hands, and her belly…” Jim motioned an arc over his own gut and Al clucked with sympathy.

“I realized, too,” he added, “that my saying something would have alerted her Mr. Fiorello. If she said nothing to her husband about stepping out with me in Ireland, well…” he shifted in his seat, “I decided seeking closure wasn’t worth creating a rift in a new family. We were never intimate, so technically she wasn’t committing adultery.”

“Depends on the priest who hears that confession, I guess. I haven’t been to Mass in years, so I can’t say.” Al signaled to move off the interstate onto a state highway, crossing state borders. “That is such a sad song, brother.”

“Take it, turn into a hit.” Jim touched his head to the passenger window. “My father’s put off his retirement until I return to take over the business. I’m too busy harboring the guilt of running away to write song lyrics.”

“Tell me about your business,” Al said, “and Enniscorthy?”

That took up much of the drive through Pennsylvania, paused once while Al stopped for gas somewhere outside Bedford. During the break Jim remained in the car while Al slipped into the station to pay. The thump of a heavy hand grasping Jim’s headrest startled him forward, and he turned just as the once-sleeping Llewyn pulled himself into a sitting position.

“Who the fuck are you?” Llewyn’s voice was gruff and dry. He scratched his bearded chin and patted his face to brush back his thick, curling bangs.

“Jim Farrell.”

Llewyn blinked, presumably not expecting to hear a foreign accent. “Fuck, are we in Canada?”

“No.”

“Are you a prostitute?”

This line of questioning baffled Jim. “Of course not. I was hitchhiking and Al… why would you think I was selling my body?”

“You know the saying. Gas, grass, or ass, nobody rides for free,” Llewyn said, and barked out a laugh. “I’m paying for gas, by the way.”

“So am I.” Jim got out his billfold and had a few American dollars ready for when Al returned to the car. “And I am not familiar with that saying.”

“What saying?” Al dipped his head through the open driver’s side window and distributed cigarettes and Coke bottles.

Llewyn grabbed one of each. “Gas, grass, or ass. Old Country here never heard of it.”

Al started up the car. “He means petrol, gage, or arse,” he said to Jim.

“Ah, well,” Jim tipped his Coke toward Llewyn, “why didn’t you say so?”

~*~

Al couldn’t believe his fucking good luck. 

He expected to roll for eight knuckle-dragging hours from New York to West Virginia with only the sound of Llewyn Davis’s buzzsaw snoring overpowering his car’s shitty AM radio. The addition of Jim Farrell to the one-sedan caravan helped pass the time, even at the peril of drawing Al’s attention from the road.

A more beautiful human being, in Al Cody’s mind, never existed. Not just good-looking–because even Llewyn with his surly charm and shaggy appearance was attractive. Jim Farrell was beautiful in a way that inspired poetry. A person could listen to that voice talk all the way to the West Coast, but Al supposed that was true for anybody meeting a foreigner for the first time. Al kept his praise of Jim to himself, certain he’d catch hell from Llewyn about it on the first gush of compliments. 

He accepted the challenge of fixing his gaze on the road for much of the drive. Only when Al saw no approaching headlights did he turn for a glimpse of Jim’s red-brown hair and high cheekbones. Like a siren calling to sailors. Al smiled, mesmerized by the man’s profile, and crossed the median more than once.

“Al, we seem to be drifting into oncoming traffic,” Jim said more than once, surprisingly not panicking.

“Sorry.”

The gradual setting of the sun and ensuing darkness aided in Al’s concentration, but he listened with great interest to the man’s story. His heart went out to the man who saw his own broken, yet he quietly reveled in the fact that Jim was unattached. Jim mourned what he lost with this Eilis bird, yes, but hearts healed. Al thought if he could convince Jim to see the rest of the good old U.S. of A., he might have the opportunity to provide the necessary balm.

“If you don’t mind my saying,” Al began, and Jim paused to hear. “It’s good that you walked away. Whatever Eilis wrote in that letter, you have to hope she was sincere and remorseful about leading you to think she might stay.”

Jim sighed. “She was pregnant in Ireland with her husband’s child, early on. The timing… the more I think about it, we weren’t meant for each other,” he said. “Yet it hurts to even hold onto the last fond memory I have of her.”

Al wanted to ask, and didn’t, but Jim volunteered. “We danced at Nancy’s wedding. I hinted at marriage then and Eilis played it cool, but we seemed to fit so well in each other’s arms.” He shook his head. “Perhaps it was the idea of being with someone, or that particular feeling, that I savored. Not necessarily Eilis.”

“Who can say?”

Clearly not Llewyn. Once awakened from his stupor, he changed the subject and dominated the conversation all the way to the address given to Al by friends from the Gaslight bar.

~*~

It was dark by the time Al parked his car behind a line of others on the side road. Jim counted six, and estimated a minimum of nine people bunking at this modest cottage for the night–their trio included. No outside light illuminated their path, but the interior appeared bright and alive with dancing shadows against every window. Jim thought he’d like to see the two-story home in the daytime; it struck him as something one might find in Enniscorthy. 

The activity inside, not so much.

Jim clutched his suitcase for dear life, deciding he ought to hold onto it for the duration of their stay. All the furniture in the front living area was pushed to the walls to create a dance floor. A young woman with long blonde hair strummed a guitar and sang in one corner next to an upright piano where two men accompanied her. Bodies pressed together in the center of the room, hips rolling and arms swaying high. Those not too wrapped up in each other to care about newcomers eyed the incoming trio with great interest. 

Looking at him, or what he carried? Jim pressed his hand on his jacket, feeling for the indentation of his billfold. Keeping it safe. 

The song was vaguely familiar to him; this particular arrangement threw him a moment but the lyrics made it recognizable. The blonde woman sang, and soon a deep voice accompanied her:

Walk right in, sit right down. Baby let your hair hang down…

Jim turned and realized Al supplied the harmony. The man’s face looked beatific with his eyes closed as he sang. Truly mesmerizing. Jim stood there with him until the song ended and the applause faded before speaking.

“Whose house is this again?” he asked Al over the din of laughter and instruments tuning. Llewyn had disappeared into the crowd and Jim lost sight of his dark brown curls.

“I don’t know exactly.” Al scratched his bearded chin. He waved down Llewyn when the man returned with three bottles. “Llewyn, who’d you say lived here?”

Llewyn distributed the beer and pulled long from his before answering. “I didn’t. I thought these were your friends,” he said.

Jim stepped back, partially behind Al, prepared to retreat if necessary. “Have we crashed a stranger’s party?” No surprise about the curious glances then. “Should we leave?”

“It’s cool.” Al hefted the strap of his gunny sack-like baggage higher on his shoulder and forged a path through the dancers, indicating for Jim to follow. In the kitchen they met more people–a line of young women in short skirts seated on the prep and eating surfaces. Two of them held orange tabby cats in their laps, idly scratching behind ears and under jaws. Open windows allowed the soft breeze to dissipate the haze of cigarette and marijuana smoke. 

Jim watched as Al sidled up to a pair of giggling brunettes who offered him a roach for a quick toke. People passed through the kitchen to the backyard, and vice versa, so he didn’t hear their entire conversation. The commotion outside competed more for his attention and eventually won. 

Lighted torches, louder music, fewer clothing. An extension cord, plugged in at the kitchen, stretched out to a table in the middle of the garden where somebody had set up a record player. Men and women danced to rowdier tunes than what played in the living room, as mixed couples and same-sex. Jim noticed one woman, stripped down to her brassiere with her black skirt rucked up to her waist, grinding on a man’s thigh as she toyed with the straps on her shoulders. Now off.

It was a debauched scene, unfolding in the open and inviting voyeurs, and Jim rubbed the back of his neck to temper the heat creeping along his skin. He’d seen people in bathing clothes at the beach, so the near nudity didn’t faze him. The display of intimate behavior, the tacit encouragement of the other partygoers, awed him. The pungent odor of burning weed entered his body and rendered him slightly dizzy.

Couples, one or two triads, were practically rutting in the grass and nobody batted an–

“Hey, Jim.” 

Jim blinked and turned to meet Al’s bloodshot eyes. The man looked dead on his feet yet his crooked smile hinted at a reluctance to settle down just yet. Who could sleep with all this racket, anyway?

Al was holding a cat, too. Were they giving them away at this party?

“We’re good to crash here for the night,” Al was saying. “You want something to eat first?”

Jim still held his beer, untouched, and set it on the nearest open surface before declining. He had a packet of crisps in his suitcase, purchased from an automat in Brooklyn. He trusted that over anything served here. Silent and exhausted, he followed Al into a room off the kitchen and stopped short at the sight of an ancient clawfoot tub.

“Al,” he said, “this is the bath.”

Al secured the door behind them, blocking it with his gunny sack. “Yeah.”

~*~

Three twin-sized mattresses covered most of the bathroom floor. Al considered moving one away from the toilet, but noticed Jim eyeing the tub. He set down the cat, one of the girls said her name was Millicent, and turned to Jim. “What, you’d rather sleep there?” He said it as a joke, but the earnestness of Jim’s reaction surprised.

“It looks cleaner than the mattresses,” Jim said, pointing out all the urine stains, bronzed with age. He grabbed an olive drab Army blanket and lined the inside of the oblong bowl, then mulled over the two remaining quilts for his cover.

Al sat on the closed lid of the toilet and removed his boots. “I got an idea, if you don’t mind a bit of close quarters.” Jim looked at him, and he steeled his posture, seeking courage. “I’m not keen on sleeping on somebody else’s piss stains, either.”

“Well,” Jim gave a soft smile, “you were kind enough to give me a lift.”

They stayed in their clothes and stocking feet; Jim folded his jacket over his suitcase, and Millicent found a clean spot of mattress and curled up for the night. Al got into the tub first with a saggy pillow and Jim followed, pressing his back against Al’s chest before draping the quilt over the lip of the tub. Jim rested his head in the crook of Al’s neck, and Al slowed his breathing so as not to give away his excitement. He willed the rest of his body–his pounding heart, his aching cock–to behave for as long as they remained in this position.

“Not too uncomfortable, is it?”

Jim said no. “We might want to prop our feet, though.” The tub wasn’t long enough to accommodate their heights. Both men stood over six feet, and their knees would eventually cramp. “That’s better,” Jim said, and adjusted the quilt when they kicked it away.

“I found out who owns the place.”

“A rather understanding person, I’m guessing,” Jim said. “Or the parents of whomever is hosting this shindig, while they’re cruising the Panama Canal.”

Al shook with quiet laughter. “The government, actually.”

Jim turned his head, trying to meet Al’s eyes.

“This is a safe house, of sorts,” Al said. “Used for various government purposes. One of those girls was telling me it might be haunted, too? Apparently about ten years ago a couple of federal agents stayed here while investigating UFOs–”

“Really?” Jim cut in. “Doesn’t seem like something any government would advertise.”

Al grasped the edges of the tub over the quilt. “People talk in rural areas. Enough still around to remember what happened, I guess. Anyway, one day they upped and disappeared. Back door was wide open, they left their car and equipment behind. Some folks say the aliens abducted them.”

“Where does the haunting come in?”

“Beats me. It’s my first visit.”

Nearly a minute of silence passed, with Jim shifting for comfort between Al’s thighs. Finally he said to Al, “So… we are all trespassing on federal property. Is this correct?”

“Looks that way,” Al said, trying not to react with every hard rub of Jim’s body against his. Guy smelled nice, too, despite the long drive in a not-so-clean car. “But if you think about it, taxpayers fund the government. So, technically, this is also our house.”

“Yours, you mean. I’m not American.” Jim glanced at the door, then at the small window filtering in moonlight. They were too low to see the party activity in the backyard. “I doubt any of those people out there are paying their taxes,” he said.

“Sure we do. There’s a tax on everything we buy.”

The conversation stalled there. Al figured Jim was tired. Himself, too. The drive had exhausted him, mainly because the burden of attention fell on him for eight hours and hundreds of miles. Llewyn was probably having the time of his life, energized from the long sleep. He lay there with Jim as the perfect weighted blanket against his body, close to dozing but fighting it. He liked being in the present, aware of their connection.

“Al?”

“Hm?”

“What is San Francisco like?” Jim asked.

Al turned his head, accidentally brushing his lips in Jim’s hair. He tried not to cough. “I haven’t been there before,” he said. “It was Llewyn’s idea to go. The folk music scene is still thriving there unlike on the East Coast.” Al pinched the bridge of his nose at the first tingle of a headache. He wanted to curse himself for setting off that trigger; Llewyn’s voice cut through his head, echoing rants about those “fucking Beatles.”

“You don’t like the Beatles?”

Shit. He’d spoken out loud. “I don’t know. They’re okay,” Al said. “Some friends of mine have their records. A lot of it doesn’t sound much different from earlier rock and roll. They cover a lot of those songs, too.”

“I saw them in Dublin,” Jim said. Al’s gasp of astonishment encouraged details. “Last year. Maybe they were bigger on my side of the ocean than yours at the time. Went with a few friends and upwards of two thousand people.”

Al imagined performing for a crowd that large. “They any good live?”

“Loud.” Jim shrugged. “But good, yes. The crowd demanded multiple encores and when it didn’t happen they rioted.”

Al gave a nervous laugh. “That might be why Llewyn’s not into them. More likely it’s professional jealousy,” he said. “You don’t hear about riots happening after a Kingston Trio show.” After a beat, he asked, “So, do you think you want to hang out with us on the full drive? Like I told you earlier, we’re stopping in Chicago first. Llewyn knows about this agent and I guess he wants to secure an audition or something. If that works out, he might want to stay in Chicago, but I don’t really have business there. Plus, I have a verbal agreement to rent a place out in Cali…”

Jim’s breathing settled into a slow, peaceful track. Al called out his name softly and realized the man was sleeping. Sighing, he slid further into the tub, taking Jim with him, and closed his eyes.

~*~

Curious how Al was able to lift himself out of the tub without waking him. 

When Jim opened his eyes, he was lying curled on the curved floor of the tub with his head on Al’s ratty pillow and the quilt draped over the edges, like encasing him in a child’s fort. Morning sunlight seeped through the thinner spots of the cover, illuminating the fabric until an oblong shadow crossed Jim’s line of vision. 

It grew larger and darker and caved in the makeshift quilt fort. Jim bolted upright with a strangled cry, then relaxed on seeing Millicent staring up at him with wide eyes while licking her chops.

“I suppose you want breakfast,” he said, and stroked his hand over the cat’s head down her back. The way Millicent arched into his touch spoke of approval, and after he gave her rump a quick pat he climbed out of the tub in search of his ride, and a box of kibble.

He opened the bathroom door to a near ghost home. Empty bottles littered the abandoned kitchen, and open cabinet doors revealed how the government’s cupboards resembled Mother Hubbard’s. On a whim, Jim checked the refrigerator to find an orange box of baking soda, the top ripped open and most of the white powder missing.

Surely somebody wasn’t that drunk, he thought, and sealed the door. 

Al sat on the living room sofa, still lined against one wall, digging through a box of something called Froot Loops. Jim watched as the man scooped out the cereal by the handful and tossed back the frosted red hoops.

“Not a fan of red?”

Al looked up and smiled. “Good morning,” he said, and slid to one side to make room for Jim. “I don’t eat anything with red dye in it. I heard a rumor that it’s pure poison. Anyway, I eat stuff with red dye, it comes out when I shit and I start thinking I have cancer or something.”

Too much information to digest so early; Jim figured he’d have better luck with the cereal. He took the box when offered and picked out a few orange and yellow, advertised as lemon-flavored, hoops. They tasted the same, like sugar.

“Everybody cleared out?”

Al pointed upward. “Bunch of people sleeping it off in the bedrooms.”

“Llewyn, too?”

Al’s expression changed. “Llewyn’s gone.”

“Gone?” A hard pit formed in Jim’s gut.

“Sometime between when we saw him last and when I got up,” Al said. He shoveled in another scoop of vetted hoops and talked as he ate. “He grabbed one of the cats, one of the girls, got in the car and–” Al pushed his hand forward, indicating motion.

“Is he coming back?”

“Doubt it,” said Al.

Jim sat upright, turning back toward the bathroom. Thank the saints he had the foresight to bring in his bag. Same with Al. “I can’t believe he stole your car,” he said.

“It was his car. He was too drunk to drive it here last night.”

“Still,” Jim sagged against the couch, “who abandons a friend in a house full of strangers? Why?” Soon as he asked that, a thought occurred to Jim. He remembered Llewyn’s words from last night. Gas, grass, or ass. He guessed the girl with the pussy offered Llewyn a better deal. 

“Al, I’m sorry.”

Al set down the box. “I was gonna say the same thing. I was gonna take you to California, show you the rest of the country…” he kicked the box over, and Millicent raced over to nibble at the spilled hoops, “and try to make you feel better.” He side-eyed Jim, his long face stretching with his melancholy. “I guess we have to figure out how to get you back to New York.”

“Perhaps it’s better this way. As much as I’ve longed to travel, I have responsibilities back home.” Jim stood and rolled his shoulders to get the blood flowing. “It’s selfish of me to delay my parents’ retirement.”

“The way you described Enniscorthy, Ireland,” Al said, “it sounds pretty.” The man focused on his stockinged feet. “I wouldn’t mind seeing it one day.”

The more Jim thought about it, he decided it best to turn around rather than move forward. After seeing Eilis happily pregnant with her husband, Jim wanted to put himself as far away from Brooklyn as possible. California, while a viable option, couldn’t beat home.

The second thought ran smack into the first. “Al,” he said, “do you have a passport?”

Al nodded. “It’s in my sack. I brought it in case Llewyn and I detoured into Canada.”

“Are you set on San Francisco?” he asked. “If that was more Llewyn’s goal, maybe you could come to Enniscorthy instead. With me.”

~*~

Enniscorthy.

With Jim.

Together.

Al hadn’t known the man for twenty-four hours, but given the choice between following a soft-spoken angel across the ocean or attempting to track down his cranky friend… 

“Are you sure?” he asked Jim. “I mean, this isn’t some kind of pity offer, is it? Just because we’re stranded in West Virginia, although we passed a train station on the way in, so we aren’t that shit out of luck.”

Jim laughed, briefly. “I’d think between the two of us, we can come up with a plan to get out of here. You are probably the one thing about this country I like, and you sing very well. I can tell you, too, there’s no such thing as too much music in Ireland. You’re a Cody, you’d fit right in.”

“Even folk music?” Al challenged. “In a world where people want the ‘fucking Beatles.’”

He followed Jim’s gaze across the room. Somebody had brought in the record player that entertained the backyard partygoers. A stack of records leaned against the fireplace, the top cover displaying the very Fab Fuckers themselves. Al got up and inspected the copy of A Hard Day’s Night. “I sure wish my record had sold as well as theirs.”

“I like to think there’s room for all kinds of music in the world, Al. Have you been inside a real Irish pub?” Jim asked. “You don’t hear the Beatles singing.”

Al smiled back at him, ready with his answer. But first, he wanted to seal the deal. “I remember you talking about that last good memory you had with… you know,” he said. “I’d like one for this place, if that’s okay.”

“What are you saying?” 

Al understood Jim’s genuine confusion, and he hoped it made sense when he put side one of the album on the player and dropped the needle on the one Beatles song he liked. After a moment of static, John Lennon’s voice rang out from the pinhole speakers.

If I fell in love with you, would you promise to be true…

He stepped away, holding out his hand toward Jim. “Dance with me?” he asked. 

“Beg pardon?” Yet Jim lifted his hand to meet Al despite the reluctance in his voice.

It seemed like a good idea to Al. When Jim danced with Eilis, he probably thought it marked the beginning of a happy future with her. Al wanted one for himself, and while it remained to be seen if he’d have it with Jim, he believed it ought to begin with a dance.

As Al debated in his mind how to convey these ideas to Jim, he stepped forward and pulled Jim close by the waist. Their nearly even heights made for a good fit, and Al took the lead in swaying Jim in a circle around the cleared living room floor.

When their lips met two minutes later, the song faded and the needle moved to a livelier dance tune. Neither of them noticed, nor cared.

“Is that a yes, then?” Jim asked when they parted.

“It is,” Al said. “But the rest of the cats are staying here.”

“Fair enough. Ireland has plenty.”

Chapter Text

“You’re kidding me,” said Gabe O’Malley.

“I’m not,” said Flip Zimmerman. 

Gabe walked three steps into the living room of his temporary home, this fractured fairy tale of a dump that was to serve as his safehouse for the next few weeks. Fade marks on the wallpaper indicated where the sun shone into the house. Stuffing bulged from thin spots on the threadbare couch facing the fireplace. The wood casing on the console TV in front of that was cracked; Gabe guessed it was a black and white set, too. The entire house reeked of sour, burnt bacon, an unpleasant olfactory parting shot from the previous tenants hosted by the feds.

Lord forbid the government spare any expense for the comfort of anybody testifying against a crime syndicate. Gabe guessed the O’Carroll family didn’t rank high on the list of mafia families, but he only had so many secrets to share.

“Looks like the fucking Keebler elves trashed the place out of spite before you evicted them,” Gabe said. Seriously, the decor in this place was straight out of the Ricardos’ apartment. “What’s with the piano?” He gestured to the large instrument; many of the white keys had yellowed and a few were missing. Gabe pressed down on one and winced at the dying ping sound that issued from the instrument. “We having a singalong later?”

“Will you stop complaining?” Flip set down his suitcase. “It’s a place to eat, sleep, and shit. It’s not that bad.”

Gabe drifted close to one wall, studying the ancient framed wedding photograph hanging there. “Who’re they?” The bride wore a pucker and the groom’s beard rivaled that of Grizzly Adams. Neither looked happy to be standing next to each other.

“They came with the house,” Flip said. 

Gabe side-eyed Flip. “Are they buried underneath it?”

“Are you going to be like this the whole time?” Flip took out a pack of cigarettes from his front pocket. “Because it’s my job to keep you alive for the next two weeks, and I really don’t want to explain to my superiors why I had to bury you underneath the house because you wouldn’t shut the fuck up.”

“Give me a cigarette, and I’ll give you a break then.” Gabe held out his palm and Flip shook a stick from the pack. He leaned in when Flip offered light from his Zippo and studied the agent’s exhausted expression, while blowing out a plume of smoke. Flip Zimmerman was a good-looking man. Gabe considered himself lucky to have been paired with him over the other U.S. Marshals and FBI agents with whom he connected during his depositions. Everybody within the organization looked fresh out of a cloning machine with the same ill-fitting white shirts and jackets, dark comb over haircuts exposing stripes of scalp flesh, and browline glasses. A pack of clean-shaven, owl-eyed nerds.

Flip, dressed down in buffalo plaid flannel and denim, with hair so thick one might get their fingers stuck in it, added a nice aesthetic to the place. Gabe stared hard at the man’s mustache and chin scruff and imagined the abrasion it might cause between his thighs. If Gabe had to sit here for two weeks with his thumb up his nose, Flip seemed a better alternative as an object of focus than the four peeling walls and a television with a possible vertical hold problem. He imprinted Flip’s face in his mind as inspiration for later use.

“There are two bedrooms upstairs, each has a bath with a shower,” Flip was saying as they parked on the couch. “If you want a soak, there’s a tub in the laundry room off the kitchen. It came with the house, too, don’t ask why it’s there.”

“I won’t.” Gabe set his cigarette in one of the grooves in the metal ashtray on the coffee table. Like with the piano, he guessed the government couldn’t be bothered with moving heavy shit out of the house. He glanced at the one bookcase in the room, noting the scarcity of reading material. “Not much in the way of entertainment, huh?”

Flip shook his head. “You know we can’t go into town. You have to keep a low profile,” he said. “I’m not all that comfortable with letting you out in the yard, either. Not that there’s much to see.” Flip glanced toward the passageway leading to the kitchen. “There used to be a nice garden and courtyard, but it’s all overgrown. You’re likely to get snake-bitten if you go out there.”

“Well, at least there’s beer.” Gabe was thinking of the cardboard pallet of Schlitz in the trunk of Flip’s car, still packed away with the rest of the groceries they had yet to bring into the house. Not his first choice, but it beat nothing.

Flip stubbed out his cigarette, exhaling smoke through his nose. “And you’re welcome to it,” he said. “I have to keep a clear head the next two weeks. You should as well, but at least you have something else to do with your mouth besides complain.” He stood. “Speaking of the beer, we better get everything in before it gets too dark. Little help?”

“Sure.” Gabe left his cigarette smoldering in the tray, and watched Flip’s backside as the man exited the house. They spent the remainder of the evening sorting through supplies and putting everything away. All the while, Gabe thought of other ways to occupy his mouth.

~*~

“How did you become a Marshal?”

They were in the bedroom Gabe chose for himself. Neither bed was made, forcing them to hunt for sheets and blankets. Flip eventually found a tangle of laundry in the dryer, grateful that the previous agents hadn’t left the fabric to mold in the wash. While he and Gabe wrestled with the blue fitted sheet and smoothed out the wrinkles, he pondered Gabe’s question.

“Prior to this, I was a detective with the Colorado Springs police department,” he said. “Intelligence division, though I did time in Vice early in my career. I originally had designs on joining the FBI, with my previous experience.” Flip thought back to his last big case in Colorado, assisting with the takedown of a Ku Klux Klan chapter attempting a foothold in the state. Definitely more in line with the duties of an FBI agent.

“What put you on this path?” Gabe asked. “Babysitting a criminal turned snitch?”

“Somebody planted a bug in somebody else’s ear, suggested they come meet me.” Flip shrugged a pillow into a case that didn’t match the fitted sheet. None of the sheets matched, par for the course, but at least they retained the fresh scent of the dryer sheet left in the machine. “The Marshals were very interested in having me, and I was very interested in the generous pay bump.”

Gabe laughed at that. The bed made, he toed off his shoes and settled in the middle. Relaxed in a white tank top and jeans, a gold cross pendant glistening just under his collarbone, Gabe was the picture of contentment. One wouldn’t guess he worried about members of a violent Irish gang hunting him down and filling his body with bullets.

“Not the most original story I’ve heard, but who says no to a raise?” Gabe said. “Your turn.”

“Okay, but remember you opened that door.” Flip paused. “Why did you become an informant?” He didn’t like the term snitch . Gabe was doing them a service, sticking his neck out like this.

Nonetheless, he figured Gabe might bristle at the question; it was a sensitive topic, after all, one that might get the man killed if Flip slacked off on the job. During his tenure in Colorado, he protected many a VIP to above satisfactory results. Of course, he had a solid partner with him for nearly every assignment. Ron Stallworth, last Flip knew, was talking to the FBI about a possible career move.

Gabe reached into his back pocket for his wallet and pulled out a small photograph. Flip crawled onto the bed next him and, stretching out, studied the department store studio snapshot of an infant with feathery ginger hair.

“That’s my boy. Stensland. The picture’s over a year old, I can’t risk having anything recent.” The ice in Gabe’s steely bright gaze melted a bit along with the tone of his voice as he talked more about his son. “I only got to hold him for a short while before we arranged for him to stay with family in Ireland. The hope is that once this business is done, I’ll get back over there and we can live like normal people.”

Stensland, though possessing the wrinkly face and wide eyes of a typical newborn, radiated a touch of Gabriel O’Malley in his features. Flip imagined the boy might grow into a carbon copy of his old man. “He’s cute,” Flip said, handing back the photo. “And his mother? She’s there, too?”

“You know what happened to Claire Walsh,” Gabe said, cool again. “She’s the other reason I’m here.”

Right. Flip offered his condolences for Gabe’s loss, and received a short nod in return. He couldn’t relate, having never been married or enjoyed a long term relationship. Consequently, he never experienced such a painful loss. He didn’t blame Gabe for wanting to bring the people who killed his son’s mother to justice. 

“With your testimony, and the other evidence the FBI has gathered,” Flip told him, “it’s enough to put the key players in the family away for a long time. It’ll cripple the rest of the O’Carrolls. They won’t recover.”

Gabe shrugged. “It won’t end the violence in the Kitchen, or anywhere else in the city.”

“You let the feds worry about the other factions. In the meantime,” Flip sat up straighter, “we still have my bed to fix up, O’Malley.” 

A thin line of perspiration remained on Flip’s brow from struggling with Gabe’s fitted sheets. He decided when it was time to leave the safe house, forget about laundering them. Enough work getting the shrunk from the wash sheet on the bed, damned if he had to fold it correctly.

“True, Or,” Gabe put his hands behind his head, giving Flip a lopsided smile, “why not save yourself the trouble, at least for tonight?”

Flip pondered the invitation. It was late. He settled back next to Gabe. “Tell me more about your boy,” he said, and listened to his charge talk until they both drifted off.

~*~

Gabe fluttered his eyes to open to the narrowest of slits at first light, sensing another presence in the room. Immediately his mind shifted to a memory of that awful night. He secured the locks on the doors and windows, yet they still managed to slip into his apartment and partially succeed their hit. Claire got one before the other retaliated, and Gabe dropped her assassin. Both bodies surely fed the fish for months.

It happened not long after Stensland was born, more than a year ago. It seemed like yesterday and forever at the same time.

What he felt now… it was more than Flip’s hard and lean body nestled at his side. Damn shame the O’Carrolls found him this soon, because Gabe ached with a generous hard-on and craved relief. An early morning murder might put Flip out of the mood, assuming he was interested in the first place. Gabe got that impression, seeing as Flip stayed.

Late last night, while Flip prepared dinner, Gabe happened upon a carving knife jammed in the crevice of the utensils drawer. He figured the feds missed it in a sweep of the house before making it presentable for criminal snitches like him, though Gabe had no reason to off Flip. Not that he believed Flip incompetent at his job, either, but he preferred an extra layer of protection.

He’d smuggled the knife upstairs, and tucked it under the mattress within reach behind his head. Eyes still closed, body aware of Flip’s position beside him, Gabe feigned fitful rest, sliding his arm under his pillow while discerning the whereabouts of their unwelcome guest. He listened for light movement, the rasp of breath. Confident of his mark, he shot his eyes open at the same he grasped the knife and raised it to strike–

–and nearly missed the orange cat that scampered quickly onto Flip’s chest and parked there. The animal glared at Gabe, not amused.

Flip snorted awake and raised his head. On seeing the newcomer, he sighed and rested again. “Right,” he said, his voice heavy with sleep, “I forgot to tell you about the cat.”

“You’re right. You forgot.” Gabe slammed down the knife on his bedside table. That alerted Flip to sit upright and the cat rolled back onto his lap. “Is Agent Morris staying with us long?”

Flip chuckled. “Cat’s a she. They call her Millicent. I hope she was hiding out somewhere in the house last night. I’d really hate to learn she found a way in through all the locked doors and windows.” 

Meaning if a cat slipped through security… Gabe rubbed his face. “Perhaps we should check.”

Flip tapped Millicent’s hind legs and she leaped off the bed, padding toward the stairs. “Perhaps,” he echoed, and glanced at Gabe’s side of the bed. “Quite a knife you have there.”

Gabe lifted it and offered it, handle first, to Flip. When Flip didn’t budge, he put it back. “It came with the house. Perhaps the woman in the wedding photo used it on her husband before burying him in the cellar.”

~*~

Once Flip confirmed the cottage’s security and set Millicent out into the garden to fend for herself, tensions between and Gabe dissipated. They spent the first week of witness protection playing cards and talking, turning on the TV mainly for sporting events and Walter Cronkite. Gabe rationed out the beer, limiting himself to one can a night and sometimes not finishing what he drank. “I like to keep a clear head, too,” he told Flip on the fourth night.

“I suppose having a price on your head puts you on edge.” Flip understood. “You want to be alert just in case. I’m here to prevent that.”

They were sharing the couch, the NBC movie of the week playing low and neglected in the foreground. Gabe looked him right in the eye. “I’m staying sober so you’ll know that I consent,” he said. Then he leaned in and kissed Flip hard on the mouth. That’s how it started. After twenty minutes of necking and heavy petting, they walked single file upstairs, the television still on.

While Flip had eventually moved into his own room, they spent the first night of this new arrangement in Gabe’s. His room had a better view of the backyard and the growing wooded property beyond that–the perfect place for a pair of city enforcers to disappear after completing a job. Gabe distracted Flip plenty in the moment, and heavens knew he wanted to harness the sexual energy building between them, but Gabe’s safety came first.

Gabe landed with a hard bounce on the mattress. Flip thought the frame might buckle under from the force–everything in this house was so damned old. He put the thought out of his head while they undressed and eyed each other hungrily.

“What do you like?” Gabe asked him, and peeled off his shirt to reveal smooth, pale skin and tight nipples made to fit between Flip’s teeth.

Flip attempted, and failed, the slow strip approach to seduction. He preferred his sex slow and smoldering at every step, especially during foreplay. Yet, seeing more of Gabe exposed as he yanked off and tossed his clothes on the floor spurred Flip to hurriedly add to the pile. He stood, naked and aching hard between his thighs, as Gabe reclined and stroked his own cock to roll back his foreskin.

The redhead looked at him expectantly, and Flip realized the question hanging between them. “I like pretty much everything,” he said. “Top, bottom, side… just don’t ask me to piss or shit on you, and definitely don’t think about trying it on me.”

“Those are my hard limits, too. No worries.” Gabe laughed. He asked for tops and tails, and Flip hit his bare feet on the headboard while stretching next to Gabe. With one hand cradling Gabe’s balls and the other pressed on the patch of ginger hair at the base of the man’s cock, Flip sucked the tip into his mouth and held it there. He lapped his tongue around several times, occasionally sliding the tip along the slit to taste Gabe’s precum, but waited to go deeper. 

Gabe worked him differently, bobbing up and down fast and gagging audibly every time he buried his mouth in Flip’s bush. Everybody had a technique, Flip supposed, but he prided himself on his self-control. If Gabe considered this a challenge to see who got the other guy off first, well… Flip smiled to himself before licking Gabe’s cock in long, wet stripes.

Game on.

Flip rolled Gabe’s balls between his fingers while easing the man’s cock down his throat. He scraped his top front teeth along the velvet skin of his shaft on the trip down, then sealed his lips tight on the return. He growled deep around Gabe with every tiny twitch and pulse. Gabe fought the incoming wave, but Flip wanted to taste him before he switched positions.

He felt the cool air on his own dick, and Gabe sucking in a breath. “You fucking bastard,” Gabe said, but Flip took it as a compliment. Flip tightened his grip around Gabe’s cock and slapped the man’s ass, swallowing him to the last drop. Gabe crumpled forward, putting his weight on Flip as he cried out his orgasm. It would have been the perfect opportunity for Flip to move in between Gabe’s thigh and eat out that beautifully rounded ass, but he needed a release himself.

“Get up,” he ordered Gabe, and rolled onto his back. Gabe’s spit was drying, so Flip added some of his own and stroked his cock hard again. “Ride me.”

Gabe curled his upper body forward and turned onto his knees before straddling Flip. He was red in the face and huffing out harsh breaths through his nose, snorting like a cartoon bull but Flip didn’t think he looked upset. The slight uptick of the side of Gabe’s mouth indicated the exact opposite, though the man didn’t immediately obey his command.

“First,” Gabe said, then grabbed two of Flip’s fingers for a quick suck, “open me.” He flicked his gaze down at Flip’s cock. “I’ll need some help to take all of you.”

Flattering. “Nobody else like me in New York?”

Gabe leaned forward as Flip scissored his forefingers inside Gabe to stretch him. “Not like you, no.”

~*~

He damn near cried as Flip stretched him. The harder Gabe rode the marshal, though, the quicker he adapted to the man’s cock. The sex was everything he wanted at the moment–rough and messy and one hundred percent casual. Plus they had a full week of ahead of them and nothing else to do around this cottage except fuck. After he testified and boarded the plane for Dublin he’d mourn the end of this fling, but in time he’d smile and remember that it happened.

Gabe braced his palms on Flip’s hard pec and pushed his backside against Flip’s hands as they cupped his ass and steered. Gabe knew to expect Flip’s climax when the man’s fingers dug into his flesh. He’d bruise for certain, but proudly wear Flip’s fingerprints.

Eventually, they repositioned themselves under the sheets and relaxed, facing each other and kissing as they reclined. “You make a habit of sleeping with your charges?” Gabe asked.

“You’re my first assignment with the Marshals.” Flip pushed out his lower lip, now a deep red from so much kissing. “Bit too soon to say.”

Gabe hadn’t meant for his question to accuse Flip of promiscuity. He was hardly an angel but genuinely curious, having abstained himself since losing Claire. “Well, I’m happy to have been the first.” He intended to say more but the change in Flip’s expression stopped him short. It looked like concern quickly replaced the afterglow.

“What?”

Flip lifted himself on his elbows and watched the bedroom door. “Somebody’s here,” he said.

Shit. “Might be the cat.”

“It’s after midnight.” Flip whispered, indicating the illuminated flip clock on his side of the bed. “TV stations here sign off. What are we not hearing?”

Gabe pricked up his ears and held his breath. With the bedroom door open, the movie’s dialogue had been audible while they fucked. They should be hearing the soft roar of static now, like a comforting rainstorm. Nothing.

Unless Millicent had learned to manipulate dials on the console, somebody else had cut the switch.

Flip put his finger to his lips, and Gabe nodded. The marshal slipped out of bed and into his briefs, then took his gun from his holster. Gabe, still naked, reached for the knife left on his bedside table. Crouching low behind the bed, he watched Flip hide behind the door and peer out into the hallway. From his vantage point, he couldn’t tell if shadows slithered along the wall of the staircase, but he heard no creaking footsteps. Flip’s movements served as his cues, and when the marshal rounded the door and moved stealthily forward Gabe was close in pursuit.

He stopped short of leaving the bedroom when he heard two pops in rapid succession. Flip’s gun, or his would-be assassin’s? The dark figure darting into this room gave him little time to ponder. They were dressed all in black, from the ski mask to the shoes. Gabe wasted no time in plunging his knife into the intruder’s gut, hitting the right spot to expel enough vital organs to render them dead in seconds.

Still, Gabe believed in a thorough job. He ripped the ski mask away, all the better to find the man’s jugular, and finished him off. He didn’t hear Flip’s panicked shout at first, for the blood pounding in his ears.

“I’m okay,” he shouted back. “This one’s dead.”

Flip returned, “This one, too.” After a muttered curse he added, “I have to call this in.”

Gabe sat back on his heels, watching the puddle of blood spread in a thick stream toward him. He should get dressed, but at least he could clean the mess more easily from his skin than his clothes. He sighed, thinking this was not the best way to end a night of hot sex.

“Definitely not the cat,” he said to himself.

~*~

The higher ups in the O’Carroll clan got the message. The failure of their foot soldiers to return victorious inspired their lawyers to reach out to the city D.A.’s office to discuss a deal. Flip figured it involved throwing some other family under the bus, but in the end Gabe’s testimony was no longer needed. Flip’s superiors ordered him to escort Gabe home and report for his next assignment.

“I’m sorry we didn’t have more time,” Flip told him the night before their scheduled departure from the cottage. They’d moved to the other bedroom, where Flip hovered over Gabe while fucking him in missionary. The locked door, hopefully, ensured no unwelcome visitors of the human or feline variety.

Gabe arched his back and reached up to cup Flip’s jaw before sliding down to trace the tight cords in his neck, then over his shoulders and biceps. They’d spent the remainder of their tenure at the cottage, since striking down the O’Carrolls’ goons, kissing and screwing. Like packing a honeymoon into a one-night stand with spare change. Flip wanted to close his eyes and savor the other man’s touch, but it meant blocking Gabe’s face from view. He wanted the memory of Gabe’s blissed out smile to take to his next job.

“What would you do to me if you had more?” Gabe asked. 

“Hm?” Flip kept pounding away at that sweet ass.

Gabe grunted a bit before finding his voice. “Time. Would you stay?”

“I think so,” Flip said, bending at the elbows to kiss him. “Quite a few positions we haven’t covered yet, and places. We’ve only fucked in the bedrooms here. I’d have loved getting you in that tub downstairs, or even outside. Fuck you against one of those tall pines.”

“And shred my skin on the bark? Forget it.”

Flip laughed. “City boy,” he chided. “I’d take you up to Colorado for some hiking,” kiss , “reward you every time you reached a milestone.”

“There’s good hiking in Ireland, too.”

Flip slowed. Gabe was serious. “What are you saying?”

“You could come with me,” Gabe said. “Just because I’m free to leave here doesn’t mean I’ll always be safe. I could use a good bodyguard willing to stay close at all times.”

Interesting. Flip lowered himself against Gabe’s body and brushed his lips over the man’s face. “I take it this job comes with a decent salary?”

“And benefits.” Gabe smiled. “So long as you don’t ask where I got the money, you can start tomorrow.” He carded his hand through Flip’s hair. “It’s not just me, either. I have my son to think about. I want him to have a normal life but he’ll need protection as well.”

Flip nodded. He had longed to travel. “We’d live in Dublin?”

“We’d fly there and take the train into Enniscorthy. It’s a nice town, quiet,” Gabe said. “I have a job there at a pub if I want it. What do you say?”

He let Gabe simmer, but only for a few seconds. Flip resumed his rough pace. “I’d say,” Flip said, “I guess you’ll be the only bartender in Ireland with his own bodyguard.”

“Wanna bet?” Gabe winked.

Chapter Text

Dearest Clyde,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that you’re able to read it in a safe place. I hope everywhere you’ve been in Iraq, you’ve seen little to no gunfire or other violence. It likely isn’t the case, though. I’ve stopped watching CNN and the evening news because every mention of our troops over there is accompanied by footage of tanks and soldiers with guns and I can’t bear to think of you in danger. Well, I lie. I will watch it in parts on the off chance I get to see you on TV. I miss you so much.

Please don’t take this to mean that I’m mad at you or trying to make you feel guilty for being there. I am so proud of you, my Clyde, and of your service in our armed forces. I do hope your presence there is making a difference in a positive way.

Anyway, you want news from home, and I’m happy to report it’s all good. You’ll see it in the photos I’ve enclosed. I am officially a homeowner, Clyde, and when you come home you will be, too. Don’t worry about money, okay? I can afford this until you come back and find a job. I got a raise at work, and when I told Da he offered to help. Also, the house payments are low owing to how I ended up buying the place.

It happened when Mellie asked if I wanted to accompany her to one of those government auctions of seized property. She was eyeing a 1970s Chevy Camaro, bright blue with a white stripe down the hood, non-runner. She was looking for a project, something to restore and speed drive on the weekends. Talked all this engine jargon that went right out of my ears (ha ha). 

I didn’t realize they were selling other things, like actual houses. One of the auctioneers told me that most of the residential property came either from seizures due to mortgage defaults, but the house I, soon we, own now is different.

It’s a beautiful two-story cottage, like something out of a story book. Not too far from your family but remote enough still to give us some privacy. The house itself is almost a hundred years old with an amazing history. The Catholic diocese here used it to shelter refugees during World War I, and the government used it as a safe house for witness protection, but not in the last decade. It’s been shut up for a long time, which means renovations are definitely in order.

Most of the furniture that conveyed was outdated and dilapidated, so I ended up trashing what I couldn’t sell or give away. I decided to keep the antique clawfoot tub (I can’t wait to get you in there with me for a long bubble bath), but unfortunately the piano had to go. It was so run down, which is a shame because it looked like it had been a true beauty in its day. With my employee discount at Soft Solutions, we won’t have any trouble decorating the interior.

I got up in the attic crawlspace yesterday, and found so many boxes. One had a bunch of vinyl records, some good stuff. I plan to keep them. One was full of old books and religious items. I might see if the diocese wants some of it back, but while I was thumbing through one of the old bibles this sealed letter fell out. You know me, I love a good mystery. It was addressed to somebody named “Kostya,” and it’s written entirely in French. 

I picked out a few words, remembering my high school French, and Mellie said she knows somebody who can translate it for us. It feels weird reading somebody else’s letter, but it was dated 1917! This Kostya person probably isn’t around anymore, so maybe he or she won’t mind.

As much as you love fixing things, Clyde, I intend to work on the house as much as I can so it’s livable before you return. The day you come up the drive to our new home to stay will be the happiest of my life, and I know we’ll have fun trying to top that. First thing I’m buying is a bed for our room. A king, of course, and I already know where I’m putting the shelves for all your books.

Everybody else here misses you, too. Jimmy and Mellie have probably sent you letters. The Bangs said to say hello, same with Earl. I talked to Da on the phone last week, and he said if you for some reason have to connect flights somewhere in Europe and are laid over for a bit, he and Flip would be happy to come out to see you. His contact information is on the business card I put in the envelope.

Oh! Before I forget, the house comes with cats. Sam Bang spotted an older tabby and a kitten lurking in the bushes when he was helping me tear down the old shed (he and Fish are helping with the landscaping). Might explain why we haven’t run into any vermin. The mother cat has a collar, her name is Millicent, but not the kit. We named her Millie Junior. Yeah, original. But they are the sweetest things, and I couldn’t bear to call animal control on them. So I guess you and I are cat dads now.

I could write for days, but I want to get this out to you. Clyde, I love you so much and I miss you. I hope you get the chance to write or call, just let me know you’re okay.

Yours always, 

S–

~*~

The care package was postmarked last month; he might have received it earlier had his unit not recently moved. Clyde reclined on his cot and sifted through the multiple Ziploc sandwich bags, taking inventory of all the goodies accompanying Stensland’s letter. A few pairs of thick white socks. Travel-sized toothpastes and mouthwash bottles. Baby wipes. Trail mix. An AT&T minutes card for long-distance calls. One whole bag of nothing but Taco Bell sauce packets–perfect for seasoning the food they served here. His favorite candy.

He pocketed the calling card and the M&Ms and laid out the rest before him, then pulled out the pictures Stens included in the letter’s envelope. Stens wasn’t lying about the house. He studied the dark brick exterior and slanted shingled roof and thought of the illustrations in his old collection of fables back home in Boone County. This house, in front of which his sister Mellie posed with Stens, had the look of a cottage belonging to a commune of elves or dwarves ready to welcome a princess in disguise, running away from her evil stepmother. A true haven.

Clyde shuffled through the other photos, mostly of his family and one of the aforementioned cats, noticing no shots of the inside of the house. He guessed Stens wanted to surprise him. His boyfriend had a month, maybe longer to repair and redecorate. Clyde imagined purple walls and kitschy furniture like on Friends , which he and Stens watched together before his deployment. There was another show Stens liked, too, and got hooked on while Clyde was away. Dawson something… Clyde wasn’t certain how those characters lived.

In the end, though, it hardly mattered to Clyde. He’d gladly live in a concrete bunker back home so long as he slept with Stens spooned in his arms every night. 

“Hey, Logan!”

Clyde startled at the sound of one of his tent mates calling him. He worried that the fellow soldier noticed his expression while looking at Stens’s picture. Clyde couldn’t help how his heart softened and pulsed every time he laid eyes on Stens’s adorable pixie face and bright ginger hair. Here, smiling and standing a foot taller than Mellie with his arm around her waist, the camera brought out the young man’s sharp cheekbones and smattering of freckles Clyde long to kiss.

He ached to be near the young man he loved since their first meeting three years ago, when Stens moved to West Virginia from Ireland. He had to mask those feelings, however, since they put him at risk here.

Another tent mate drifted over, and Clyde sat up to make room for both of them on his cot. The one to call him, Lucas, perched next to Clyde and whistled at the photo. “That your girl, Logan?”

“Yep.” Thankfully, nobody in Clyde’s unit hailed from Boone County or his home state, so they didn’t know Mellie from Eve. “That there’s her cousin. She was visiting him last month and took the picture.”

Lucas raised his eyebrow. “Good thing they’re related, so he’s not a threat,” he said.

Their tent mate, Johnson, laughed. “Don’t be so sure, it’s West Virginia after all. You know the state motto: two million people, six last names.”

“Knock it off,” Clyde said, but smiled. He took the coarse humor in stride. The more leeway he allowed his unit, the better he fit in with the group. He held his sexuality and relationship with Stensland tight against his chest. His siblings accepted his attraction to men, but President Clinton’s policies regarding homosexuals in the Armed Forces made it impossible for him to express his true self without getting bounced out on his ass, or even targeted for harassment.

“Yeah, yeah.” Lucas gave Johnson a playful shove. “You cleaned up nicely,” he said to Clyde. “Not that you need any of this.”

“Nope.” Clyde was coming to the end of his tour, a fact disclosed only to the people in his unit and Mellie. He might not have received a care package if Stens had known, and Clyde trusted Mellie to keep his secret. He wanted to surprise his boyfriend, show up on his doorstep in uniform and hopefully experience a moment of joy like no other in his short life. Clyde wanted Stens to leap into his arms and wrap those long legs around his waist, then tumble with him into bed and not leave for a week. 

Afterward, he planned to ask Stens to be his forever. No laws back home allowed them to be legally married, but Mellie told him about a Unitarian church in Charleston that performed ceremonies for same-sex couples. They’d have a spiritual union, assuming Stens said yes.

Why wouldn’t he? Stens was fixing up their house.

Clyde invited his bunkmates to help themselves to the care package goodies, and they divvied up the spoils. On the night before reporting to his transport to begin the journey home, he lay in his cot and slowly, quietly, ate the M&Ms Stens sent him. He let each candy pellet dissolve in his mouth and he spread the chocolate over his tongue, thinking of the sweet kisses he’d soon share with the man he loved.

~*~

Thank you for using AT&T True Connections, chirped the recording before rattling off instructions for completing a long-distance call. Clyde pinched the receiver between his shoulder and ear and dialed the card number, the PIN, and Mellie’s home phone in Danville. He nearly hung up when Mellie answered on the fourth ring.

“Clyde, what happened to you?” Mellie’s voice cracked with her obvious anguish. “They called the house two days ago and barely said a thing, just that you were injured.” The questions came rapid fire. Were you shot? Was there a bomb? Can you walk? Can you survive a flight home?

Truly, Clyde was just happy to hear his sister’s voice. He let her ramble on for about a minute before injecting some calm into the conversation. Not much else for him to contribute, aside from the truth. “I was almost to the airport when our truck rolled over a landmine,” he said. “There were six of us, me and one other guy made it out alive. That was the driver, and he’s gonna be fine.”

“You’re fine, too, right?”

Clyde held the receiver with his right hand, and glanced down his left arm at the stump resulting from his trans-radial amputation. The wound wasn’t entirely healed yet, and he still wore a white gauze bandage turning dark yellow in places. A doctor was supposed to come in later to talk about his prosthesis options. “Most of me is,” he said, and broke the news to her.

Mellie cried, but sounded light. “Clyde, I am so sorry,” she said. “Could have been a lot worse. You could’ve been coming home in a box.”

“I know.”

“I’m so glad you’ll be home for good,” she said. “Stens will be happy, too–”

“Does he know I’m in the hospital?” Clyde cut in, his heart ticking faster. He heard it on the monitor by his adjustable bed, and took a deep breath to calm himself. He wanted his privacy now, and feared an interruption from a concerned nurse. “I’m aware the government contacts next of kin, but they wouldn’t have his number…”

“Not yet, Clyde. I wasn’t sure if you were calling him. He should be told before you come home,” Mellie said. “He’ll want to make arrangements at the house so it’s easier for you.”

Another deep breath. What he intended to say next was more difficult than the news about his hand. “Mellie, I can’t move in with Stens. I can’t be a burden—”

“Clyde, stop it.” 

Clyde side-eyed the monitors. The pulses slowed to reflect his misery.  

“All that matters now is that you’re alive and you’re coming home. You love Stens and he loves you back,” Mellie said. “Every day he talks about you and how he’s fixing up that house for when you come home. Are you saying you’re going to break up with him because you lost your hand by no fault of yours, or his?”

Clyde squeezed his eyes shut. The tears still escaped. “Mellie, it’s the Logan curse,” he said.

“Oh, hell, Clyde...”

“It got Mommy, it got Jimmy, and it got me,” he said. His siblings laughed at the notion of the connection between various misfortunes in their family, but Clyde believed some kind of evil attached itself to the Logan name. Though he wasn’t able to pinpoint the origin, or figure out how to break the curse, he didn’t want the bad luck extending to Stens. He deserved better.

“He deserves a boyfriend with two hands,” he said to Mellie.

“He deserves a boyfriend who loves him, and so do you. I’m going to assume the painkillers are talking to me right now. You call me back when you have your flight info, okay?”

Mellie hung up before he got in another word.

~*~

Clyde stepped off the plane at Yeager Airport in Charleston, where Mellie greeted him with a bone-crushing hug and a bag of pepperoni rolls to munch on during the final leg of the journey home. She said nothing about the left sleeve of his uniform jacket pinned back to his shoulder, and he ignored the double-takes of other travelers at baggage claim while they waited for his duffel. A few people approached and thanked him for his service, and an older man saluted. Clyde just bowed his head and smiled with each encounter.

From the state’s capital city, it was little over half an hour to get to Boone County. For the typical driver, of course. Mellie, in her new-old, souped-up Camaro, proudly informed Clyde of how she made it to the airport from her house in only seventeen minutes.

“Mel,” he shook his head, “I seen enough action in Iraq.” Sure, he was anxious to get home, but in one piece, however damaged his piece was.

Mellie revved the engine, keeping it tempered until she paid the parking fee. From there she screeched out of the lot and Clyde white-knuckled the entire ride down US-119. All the while, Mellie caught him up on town gossip–how brother Jimmy was getting serious with Bobbie Jo, and that Joe Bang was incarcerated yet again for criminal mischief. “Just a sixty-day sentence this time,” she added. “He’ll be out before the Fourth of July in time to set up the park fireworks display. We’re going out to dinner beforehand.”

“You’re still seeing him?” Clyde had to raise his voice over the roar of the engine. The news of his sister dating Joe Bang lessened some of the anxiety experienced from the drive. He almost brought up the curse, but figured Mellie wasn’t hearing it. The more he considered it, though, if Mellie could hang with the likes of Joe Bang and come out unscathed, maybe everything happening to the Logans to this point was coincidence.

“Why not?” Mellie shrugged. “Danville isn’t exactly a hotbed for eligible millionaires. Besides,” she steered sharply off the highway onto a narrower county road, “the only other man worth pursuing is claimed. And gay.”

“Why’d you turn so soon?” Jimmy’s trailer was still five miles down 119.

Mellie eased off the gas and the engine purred softly. The trees lining the road gave way to a small clearing and a familiar, dark-bricked storybook house. “I’m taking you home,” she said, side-glancing him with a wide grin.

“Mel.” The anxiety shifted to the moment Mellie intended to force upon him. Clyde wasn’t ready to face Stensland. He’d refrained from contacting Stens during his hospital stay and throughout the long journey home. His trip had included a stop in Germany, and he kept Gabe O’Malley in the dark about that as well. He trusted Mellie to have kept his homecoming a secret, even to Jimmy. 

Clyde wanted more time to think of how to approach Stens about his condition. Despite Mellie’s assurances to the contrary, he still thought Stens deserved a “whole” partner, somebody capable of keeping up with him. Stens’s love of the outdoors had attracted him when they first met, and Clyde pictured a future of frustration and missed opportunities because of his disability. It also occurred to him that Stens might see his injury and have second thoughts about inviting him to stay.

He preferred to make the break now if that were the case.

Mellie turned onto the short driveway leading to the house. Stens had improved the landscaping since the time of the snapshot sent in Clyde’s care package. Lush, flowering bushes lined the perimeter of the cottage, and a dual shepherd’s hook out front held two baskets with strawberry plants. A windchime jangling a loud, deep tune hung from the eaves, and multiple birds fluttered up and down in the background. He bet Stens had a number of feeders set up in the yard.

They stepped out of the car to voices in the distance, growing louder. Clyde’s heart pounding in his ears made it difficult to discern words, but as Stens rounded the far corner of the house alongside Sam Bang he picked out a conversation related to fixing up the property’s fencing. Both young men were dressed for a day of heavy lawn work, in cut-off denim shorts and tank tops. The look added youth to Stensland, practically mirroring him the day he and Clyde met. 

Stens toted a red watering can in the shape of a strawberry, and it looked like he’d come out front to water the plants. Instead, he caught sight of the car and Mellie and Clyde–in uniform, missing his left hand–standing in front of it.

Stens’s smile fell slack. He dropped the watering can. Sam appeared equally mystified, but that was a regular look for him.

“Clyde?” Stens called out, blinking as though to confirm his vision.

Clyde waved with his good arm. “Hey, Stens.”

Stens shrieked out his name and charged forward. Too stunned to move, Clyde didn’t notice Mellie step out of the way when Stens launched himself and hit Clyde chest-to-chest with a force that sent them tumbling to the ground. Clyde’s hat flew off his head and Stens carded his fingers through his short dark hair, staring down at him like he’d just found the greatest gift under his tree.

“You’re home. You’re actually home. Oh, God, I missed you so much.” Stens peppered his face with wet kisses, though Clyde quickly realized some of it came from the other man’s tears.

“I missed you, too, Stens.” He meant it. He lay on his back in the grass, arching his neck to look up at the sky. The same clear blue sheltered them while they lived in different parts of the world, but it looked so much nicer here, close to Stens. Holding the small of Stens’s back while he straddled Clyde’s form, Clyde came to tears himself. He missed the way Stens’s hair lightened to bright copper when crowned in sunlight, missed the gentle lilt of his Irish accent that had yet to fade into a West Virginia drawl…

“I’m home, Stens,” he said, “for good.” The kisses only got more intense from there.

In the distance, Clyde heard Sam say, “Are they gonna do it right there in the yard?”

“Sam,” Mellie said, sounding tired, “get in the car.”

~*~

Stens said nothing about the deflated uniform sleeve pinned up to Clyde’s shoulder. Not when Clyde carried Stens over his right shoulder into the cottage. Not when they undressed. Not when Stens lay on his back in bed with a death grip on two wooden spindles of the headboard as Clyde pounded his ass.

It wasn’t until they spooned–Stens the big one, at his insistence–to catch their breath when Clyde brought up the subject. “Have you noticed something… different?”

He lay on his right side with his stumped arm folded against his chest. Stens rubbed his hand over Clyde’s shoulder, down to the large scar. “I won’t lie and tell you I wasn’t thinking of what to say,” he told Clyde, “but when I didn’t get a letter or a call back after I sent that last package, I had a feeling something happened.

“I didn’t think you were dead,” Stens added, “but I was up here fixing up these rooms when this weird feeling settled over me. This will sound silly, but I went to see a psychic that day.”

Clyde rolled in bed to face Stens. “I didn’t know you believed that stuff.”

“You talk about the Logan curse, and I admit I’ve humored you about it,” Stens said, “but I began to wonder if it was real after all. The psychic gave me a tarot reading and you know what my cards said?” Clyde waited, and Stens continued, “She pulled the Death card which freaked me to no end until she explained it didn’t represent a literal death, but a change for which I needed to be prepared. I guess I had to wait to discover it.”

Clyde touched Stens’s cheek. “I won’t be a burden to you,” he said. “I’ll figure out something for work. I’m not going to be one of those people who feels sorry for himself. The VA gave me numbers for a counselor, and job assistance.” Not that he needed the latter. The owner of the nearby bar, Duck Tape, where he bussed tables as a teen offered to help Clyde with bartender training.

Stens smiled and turned to kiss Clyde’s palm. “I learned two other things from the psychic that impact us. She told me I was fated to buy this house because I had a special connection to it.”

Curses were one thing, odd psychic phenomena another. Clyde remained quiet and listened. He missed Stens’s voice while deployed, and closed his eyes.

“I sent pictures to Da, and you won’t believe it, Clyde,” Stens said, sitting up. “He stayed here once. I told you this used to be a safe house used by the government?”

“Mm.” The sheets moved with Stens and Clyde blindly grabbed enough to cover himself.

“When Da testified against his old gang, they hid him out here. Flip was the agent guarding him. That’s how they met.” 

Clyde cracked open one eye.

“I like to think good news like that diminishes a curse somewhat, you think?”

“Depends,” Clyde said, looking Stens in his bright, pretty eyes. “What’s the other thing?”

Stens smiled, and turned toward his bedside table. He waved two envelopes, one yellowed and wrinkled and one fresh. “Turns out, the psychic was also fluent in French.”

~*~

My dear friend Kostya,

I would like to continue calling you my friend, though there are times I feel it is not a strong enough word to describe what I feel between us. I have lived in this country, in this house, for several weeks and by that logic my connection to the people and the soil should be strong. God has a plan for all of us, though He often leaves it to us to determine the paths taken to fulfill those plans. I assume I am meant to put down roots here, but I want to drift from everything and everyone.

Except you.

You are not the first person I have met in America, but you are the one friend I value most. I want to be careful with my words, so as not to mislead you into thinking one way when I mean another. I haven’t had many true friends in my short, wretched life. The closest bond I shared ended, sadly, with his passing. His name was Sebastião and we came up together through seminary. We traveled together on missions and practically lived as close as a man and wife. I loved him, Kostya, and when he died he left a gaping hole in my heart I found difficult to fill, even with devotions and countless rosaries.

Then I met you, and began to heal. I never expected to meet someone with whom I could talk, laugh, and simply enjoy in silent moments. There are times we may be sharing a meal or sitting quietly, each with a book, and our eyes will meet. I seem to know exactly what you are thinking. Do you sense the same?

As I write this, I am watching you pace the gardens, an ever-present cigarette pinched between two fingers while you bow your head in pensive thought. I believe I can read you as easily as these words, and I am confident in telling you, dear Kostya, I will never tire of such study.

When we first met, I offered you my friendship. Now, I offer you my heart, my trust, my fidelity… in any manner you wish to accept it. Wherever our paths are destined to lead, I hope we shall always remain in sight of each other.

Your friend,

Siska

~*~

Days after his return from Iraq, Clyde helped prepare their home for visitors. He expressed to Stens how he didn’t want a full-on welcome home party but he conceded to a backyard cookout with select family and friends. Stens wanted to set out a few souvenirs attached to the cottage and Clyde obliged him. 

He bought a nice frame for Kostya’s original letter, and hung it on the wall next to an old wedding photograph found during Stens’s initial survey of the property. Next to that was a photograph of the piano that once resided in the house. A parishioner of the church to which Stens donated it managed to restore the instrument to its former beauty, and sent the photo in a thank you card.

As they waited for guests to arrive, Clyde sifted through the records for one to play on the turntable brought in from the old Logan home. He set up side one of an old folk album by a singer named Al Cody when the front door opened and Millicent the kitten trotted inside, followed by Stens.

“Package from Ireland,” he said and sat with Clyde on the couch to open it. “I told Da about all the different items from the past we were keeping for the house, and he sent us this. Said it belonged here.”

Clyde put his stumped arm around Stens’s shoulders and watched the reveal, just as baffled when the other man lifted a large kitchen knife from a bed of foam peanuts. “Why would your dad give us that?”

“I don’t know,” Stens said, turning it in his hand, then gave an awkward smile. “Knowing him, I’m afraid to ask.”

“He sent a letter with it.” Clyde pulled the envelope from the box, and out fell a Polaroid snapshot showing a group of men standing in front of a white-bricked building. He recognized Stensland’s father and the man’s partner, though they were much younger here.

Clyde tapped the image of the ginger-haired toddler on Gabe O’Malley’s hip. “That has to be you.”

“It is. I don’t remember this being taken.” Stens flipped over the photograph and read the sticky note taped to the back. “Enniscorthy, 1980. This is the pub where Da worked. That’s his boss, Jim, and the other man is Jim’s friend Al. He’s a singer. Performed there every night, probably still does.”

Clyde noticed how close Jim and Al stood together, with Al’s fingers clutching Jim’s side barely visible in the space between Jim and Flip. “They might have been more than friends, you think?” he asked, and Stens offered a smile and a shrug in response. “What does the note say?”

“Da says every new house needs a family portrait. Until we come out and visit, he says we can use this one,” Stens said, summarizing the note. 

Nice of Gabe to send it. Clyde watched as Stens rose from the couch and set the Polaroid on the mantle. They’d get a frame later, but for now it looked nice among the rest of the decor.

More like home.

Chapter Text

Was there always a lock on the screen door?

Thomas McGregor, his left eye trained on the handle, tugged at the thin screen door blocking the main entrance to his rented cottage. It was dark out, and the glare of the security lights caused spots to dance in his vision, distracting him. It might have helped the evening to move forward had Thomas paused in his manic tongue-wrestling session with the hot piece of ass nestled in the crook of his right elbow. Alas, that required so many steps to complete disentanglement.

His companion–dark-haired, hard all over, oozing machismo –tore his lips from Thomas’s and started kissing elsewhere. “Wha’s wrong?” he asked, rumbling deep in Thomas’s ear.

“I can’t get the bloody screen open. I must have triggered a lock when I left, and I don’t have a key.” 

“I love how you talk. Bloody this and that. Who needs keys?” His companion, not a date, formed a claw with one hand and scratched four long gashes through the thin wire mesh. Widening one of the holes, he then popped the screen lock from inside, then inched his body one way to allow Thomas to unlock the main door.

“Don’t worry. I’ll pay for the replacement.”

“Thank you, Phineas,” Thomas said, punctuating his gratitude by nudging his groin against the other man’s hip.

“It’s Phillip.” Phillip was a touch above Thomas’s height, with the swarthy looks of a Thirties film star paired with metrosexual fashion sense. He smelled of weed and obnoxious body spray. Probably used the latter on his balls.

Thomas scrunched his nose when Phillip belched up the ghost of his beer-battered onion rings. “Well, Phillip,” he said, never mind the last name. Not important. “Bedroom’s upstairs and to the left.” He began pushing in that direction but Phillip swerved and strode into the main living area, whistling derisively at the decor.

“Damn. No offense,” Phillip said, walking closely along one wall to inspect everything in the frames, “but I can’t picture a guy as put together as you living in a house full of…” He gestured as he spun in a slow circle.

Thomas waited by the post at the bottom of the stairs. “Crap? That’s the word you want to say, right? I’m not offended, not in the least.” He’d touched nothing belonging to the home’s owners since he arrived, per the exchange agreement made with them. “I’m only here for the month, on holiday. The junk-collector owners are staying in my flat in London. 

“As for my being so put together,” Thomas continued, pointing up the stairwell, “I brought you here to take me apart.”

“And we will get to that. Keep your Burberrys on, old sport.” 

Phillip affected a horrendous accent, but Thomas let it slide. He fixed on the man’s pecs and the dark blue shirt pulling tight across them; the buttons strained to keep it fastened. It gave Thomas pause and he glanced down at his own narrow body. He wore Dunhill tonight, actually, not necessarily with the intent of catching somebody’s eye. He hadn’t expected to compete with his borrowed home for attention, however.

“This your great-grandfather or somebody?” Phillip tapped the ancient wedding photo.

“I’m living here temporarily, Phillip,” Thomas said. “These are not my belongings. I wouldn’t bring photographs of dead relatives to hang on somebody else’s wall–”

Thomas sighed. Clearly until Phillip’s curiosity was appeased, he wasn’t getting any. “Right,” he said, and marched up alongside Phillip. “This is a century-old love letter written in French. Since I’m fluent, I can tell you somebody named Siska was rather fond of somebody named Kostya. I’m not entirely certain of their genders.”

He tapped the fading black and white photograph. “This is a married couple I assume is now long dead. The groom sort of resembled one of the gentlemen who lives here, so they are probably related.”

“He kind of looks like you, is why I asked,” Phillip said.

“No, he doesn’t.” Moving right along. “That is a photo of an early twentieth-century upright Steinway. This is a framed Polaroid of a group of men in front of an Irish pub. I’ve never been there, don’t ask me if it’s any good. That framed record album belongs to one of the men in said photo. As in he recorded it, not necessarily owned it.

“This is a photo of the current couple living here. The dark-haired one lost his forearm in Iraq. And this,” he gestured to the plaque above the fireplace, “is a kitchen knife mounted on a decorative slab of wood. Perhaps it’s a gag gift, and the homeowners ate the fish and used the knife that gutted it as the trophy.”

Thomas rounded on Phillip, arms folded. “That concludes the tour, there is no gift shop,” he said. “Now, would you be so kind as to fuck me into the next dimension, as you earlier bragged?”

~*~

Such an impatient, proper little cocktease.

Well, not exactly little. Thomas “Last Name’s Not Important” stood close to his own height, but he was a slight person by comparison. Phillip figured out that much the moment he laid eyes on the man. Narrow waist for ergonomic gripping, nicely-rounded ass, cute bow lips and skin like cream. These are a few of my favorite things…

Phillip was on an extended family vacation himself, at a nearby adventure resort near the New River Gorge. They were eating dinner when Phillip noticed Thomas stride past the buffet dining hall into the enclosed bar, dressed absolutely nothing like the weary parents and camo-loving locals filling the space. He left his siblings and their children behind, ignoring their protests, with the promise that he’d join them early in the morning for their scheduled rafting trip.

Maybe. 

Report to the raging New River at the ass crack of dawn and spend a harrowing afternoon wedged between his brothers on a raft while recreating Deliverance, or roll around leisurely in some gorgeous Englishman’s bed, keeping calm and fucking on. Yeah, tough choice. 

Phillip spied the sofa facing the fireplace. One of those deals where each end doubled as a recliner. He turned Thomas and steered him toward the middle. “Take off your shoes and pants,” he ordered, and toed off his own loafers. “Then kneel on the middle cushion facing the wall.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Phillip mocked. “Weren’t you the one in the bar arguing with some chick on the phone, claiming you could have better sex with a man any time you wanted?” He gestured to the sofa. “Plant your knees on that cushion, spread ‘em apart, and I will prove it to you.”

Thomas shook his head, but nonetheless unhooked his belt. “I mean why here?” he asked. “There’s a comfortable bed upstairs, it’s adjustable even. I also… it’s where I keep the lube.”

“Oh, look. I have some, too.” Phillip produced a condom and sampler pillow of lubricant from his front pocket. “Always helps to be prepared for a rafting trip.”

Partially undressed, Thomas moved the granny square quilt off the back of the couch, murmuring how he didn’t want to cum all over it. Phillip had to laugh, but figured the upholstery was easier to clean. “Didn’t you say you’re here with family?” Thomas asked. “Who were you planning to fuck on a rafting trip, the mothman?”

“Not if he’s a top. No, leave those on.” Phillip admired Thomas’s body, naked but for his dark socks and the garters holding them in place. “Didn’t think people wore those anymore. That has to be the hottest fucking thing I’ve seen.” Phillip made quick work of his jeans and boxer briefs before slipping his arms around Thomas from behind. “Well, maybe the second hottest,” he added.

“The first being?”

Phillip kissed his shoulder, then turned him and pushed him hard to sit on the couch. Holding his semi-hard cock, Phillip tapped the tip against Thomas’s mouth, groaning hard as the other man accepted it.

“Yeah,” he said, fucking Thomas’s throat, “this is the hottest thing.”

~*~

Not bad. Not bad at all.

Seemed the best way to orient oneself to sucking cock was to have somebody shove theirs down your throat. Like being tossed into the deep end of the pool without water wings. Fight your way out of it.

Thomas was glad not to detect a stronger stench of body spray in Phillip’s groin area. The man tasted good, and his prick turned solid as Thomas sucked him. He shifted for comfort on the couch and shook his head to dislodge Phillip’s hand in his hair. He wanted control of this, and took it by grabbing Phillip’s ass both hands and steering.

“Shit,” Phillip muttered. Thomas peered upward, watching him close his eyes and pucker his mouth. “You’ve done this before.”

Thomas pulled his mouth away with a loud smacking noise and stroked Phillip root to tip, pretty much how he took care of himself. “Actually, no,” he said, and circled his thumb over Phillip’s smooth circumcised cockhead. He picked up a drop of precum beading from the slit and spread it around. “You’d be the first man I ever…”

He left it there. What Phillip had heard earlier tonight at the bar wasn’t a play act. Thomas had wanted a drink, and though much of his entertainment budget went to the Duck Tape bar the next town over, he chose to sit among strangers when he had it out with his now ex-ladyfriend over the phone. 

It had been Bea’s idea to book the American holiday. Rather than blow an astronomical amount of money on an extended stay hotel, he registered with a website that paired thrifty travelers willing to loan out their homes. He decided Mr. Logan and Mr. O’Malley’s cottage served as a nice home base for outdoor activities, and it was convenient for overnight trips to Washington and New York and other places. He arranged a video call with the couple and they arranged the trade. The one called Stensland promised to look after his tomato plants, and Thomas hoped he followed up on it. 

He scheduled leave from his job at Harrods, set up a keepsafe for his mail, and was running down his packing checklist when Bea backed out of the trip. She no longer found satisfaction in their relationship, was the excuse, and the argument stretched from that initial bomb drop to the night Thomas perched his white arse on a stool at the Hawk’s Nest Bar and shouted into his phone to hear himself over the array of flatscreens blaring out a NASCAR race.

You went on the holiday anyway?

Considering all the nonrefundable deposits I paid before you decided to break my heart, I thought why not? 

Thomas, you’re being dramatic.

How else should a man act when he’s told he can’t sexually satisfy his woman? Should I have signed up for a refresher course at uni?

Thomas…

(Here the gin kicked in.) You’re no Emmanuelle yourself, you know. I’d have a better time in bed with another man.

You’re not serious.

(Here Phillip inched his barstool closer and introduced himself.) I have to go, Bea. This gorgeous stallion of a man just propositioned me and I’m going to ride him like a jockey in a Dick Francis novel.

Well, not quite. Thomas got Phillip’s prick good and wet, and Phillip had him hugging the back of the couch with his ass on display. Phillip lubed up three fingers and, one by one, slid them into Thomas’s hole and scissored.

“Oh, hell.” Thomas groaned. Phillip brushed a sensitive spot somewhere up there. Thomas nearly left his body, and he gripped the couch’s edge to anchor himself. “That’s… I rather like that, yes.”

Phillip laughed, a deep from the chest noise. “Then you’re gonna love this,” he said, right before pushing his wrapped cock past the ring of muscle into Thomas’s ass. He laughed again at Thomas’s high-pitched cry, then rubbed his big hands all over Thomas’s skin, awakening every nerve. Across his shoulders and down his back, pausing at his hips to steady his rhythm, then down his legs to snap at his sock garters.

He never felt so bloody alive in his short, boring life. His skin starved for the touch.

“Holy shit, you have to be the tightest fuck I’ve ever had. Ah!” Phillip pressed hard into Thomas, slapping his rump when Thomas clenched. “Do that again,” he said. “Squeeze that greedy little hole for me.”

Thomas let his head hang down, and he focused on his breathing to better accommodate this new sensation. His own dick, aching and hard, bobbed between his thighs and leaked precum on the cushions. He feared if he touched himself now he might climax too quickly and cause a mess. Even as he lost himself in this illicit passion, he couldn’t shake his personality. 

Phillip pumped hard, and the couch groaned beneath them. The vibrations sent the throw pillows tumbling to the floor, and Thomas failed in his reach for one. What am I doing? Straightening up a couch while a man fucked him. This is why Bea left. Had he actually planned this, he’d have had towels laid out in advance.

Well, if only Bea could see him now. Thomas arched and threw his head back, demanding a kiss from the near stranger balls deep in his arse. Phillip bent forward and covered Thomas’s hands, sloppily connecting their mouths. I can’t satisfy anyone, Bea? Explain why this man can’t keep his giant paws off me.

When they finished on the couch, those same giant paws scooped up Thomas like he weighed nothing and carried him upstairs.

~*~

Phillip’s phone buzzed in yet another incoming text, and once again he ignored it. Wendy, Judd, Paul… whichever sibling berated him for his extreme tardiness could sit and spin in the New River for all he cared. Phillip liked it here in this spacious bed with the wooden spindle frame, with Thomas’s naked body within reach.

The rising sun spilled light through the gauzy curtains and warmed the bedroom. Way too early to begin the day upright, but Phillip liked the idea of morning sex. He rolled onto his side and coaxed Thomas awake by tracing his nipples.

“Mm.” Eyes still closed, Thomas smiled and turned his head toward Phillip, slowly acknowledging the tease. “Somebody’s in the mood,” he said.

Always. Phillip dropped a kiss on Thomas’s shoulder, and nibbled a trail up his neck. 

“Phillip,” Thomas said, “I wanted you to know how much I appreciate you giving me what I needed. It’s more than a hard, deep dicking. I mean, my confidence is back thanks to you.”

Phillip muttered a welcome and continued his breakfast.

“You were the ideal fantasy one night stand.” Thomas then stiffened. “Except for the fact that two days have passed and you’re still here.”

Thomas shrugged away from Phillip and sat upright, clutching the white sheet to his chest. “Seriously,” he said. “Don’t you have to go back to that resort, to your family? Or, perhaps, a job?”

“Hang on.” Phillip grabbed his phone and checked his texts. Wendy chided him for disappointing his niece and nephews. Paul demanded his share of the payment for the trip yesterday. Judd informed him that everybody had checked out and left the resort, he was taking the Porsche, and good luck getting back to New York. “That son of a–”

Something orange and fluffy leaped onto the bed, startling him. “Hey there, Millicent.” Phillip cooed at the cat wedging herself between them, smiling as she purred under Phillip’s attentive scratches. “You catch any mice last night? I bet you did.”

“Don’t encourage her like that, she’ll think you’re staying even longer. Shall I arrange a taxi to collect you?” Thomas palmed his own mobile phone, searching for nearby cab companies. Phillip molded himself to Thomas’s side and palmed the man’s cock. “Stop that.”

“If you intended for this to be a one-night stand, you’d have called for a cab right after I fucked you the first time. They operate twenty-four-seven in this country, even in the boonies,” Phillip said. “Can we have pancakes again?”

It turned into a fun game, Thomas twisting his body from Phillip’s touch, and Phillip pressing forward. Two days this had gone on, each time ending in amazing sex. “I am not cooking you pancakes,” Thomas said, rather growly.

“Never asked you to. I’m offering this time. I flap a mean jack.” Phillip swiped his nose up Thomas’s cheek and dropped a kiss there. The man stilled, he was coming back around, as Phillip anticipated. “At least, let’s eat first before you throw me out. If you really want to. You didn’t seem ready for me to leave last night.” Phillip had folded the man in half in this very bed, after the marathon fuck in the downstairs tub.

Thomas punched send on the number of a cab service, but Phillip’s teasing caused him to drop the phone in the sheets. The tinny voice of a harried dispatcher called out for acknowledgement until Phillip barked out, “Wrong number!” and ended the call. 

“Pancakes first,” he said to Thomas, “then we’ll discuss my travel arrangements. Maybe you should drive me to the train station instead. Ever been blown while driving a car?”

Thomas looked at him, his expression a mix of horrified and curious.

“Think about it.” Phillip gathered his stuff but didn’t dress, just walked out of the room naked. He dressed en route to the kitchen, where he first grabbed a plastic colander and walked out barefoot into the back garden. He had to commend whichever half of the homeowning couple tending the edible landscaping for their prize crops. Large bushes lining the back border of the property yielded a variety of juicy blueberries and raspberries. Phillip took enough to accommodate two large stacks, and was plucking a few choice strawberries from their baskets when something soft grazed his feet.

“Hey, there. You hungry?” Phillip picked one of the small blueberries from his yield and fed it to Millicent, laughing as purple juice sprayed out with her first bite. He licked away the excess and was rinsing the contents of the colander when his back pocket buzzed.

Ugh. The siblings were calling him now to tell him that he was a terrible brother/uncle. Tempted to let the call go to voicemail, he nonetheless answered. Better to have it all out before breakfast than suffer through endless ringtones all morning long.

“I will make amends,” he said in greeting, “and if this is Judd you better not wear out the transmission on that car–”

“Hello?” A woman’s voice, gentle and accented. Neither Wendy nor his mother. “Thomas?”

Phillip blinked. He held out the phone and realized he’d grabbed the wrong one. “Sorry,” he said. “Thomas is still in bed, but I guess he’s getting dressed. We had a long night, so it might take a while. I can take a message.”

“Oh.” One word conveyed confusion and perhaps a bit of disappointment. Phillip whistled as he checked the pantry cupboard for the Bisquick. “This is Bea, I’m his… well, I’m not so certain now. Who are you?”

“Phillip Altman.” Acquaintance. Fuck buddy. Breakfast companion. Slow to put two and two together but improving. He paused with the fridge door open. “Wait,” he said, “you’re the lady he was arguing with on the phone at the Hawk’s Nest two nights ago.”

Bea made a short noise of confirmation. “Yes, and I suppose you’re the American thoroughbred he rode like a Dick Francis protagonist.”

“Who’s Dick Francis?”

Bea rang off. Phillip shrugged and sprayed some PAM into a large frying pan before turning on the stove. Seconds later, Thomas’s phone chimed again.

“Popular guy,” Phillip muttered and answered again, this time to greet a deep, Southernish drawl.

“Mr. McGregor, this is Clyde Logan. I hope you’re finding the house okay?” After Phillip explained his presence, Clyde said, “I see. Well, could you let him know my sister Mellie is coming by either today or tomorrow with a Realtor to do an appraisal?”

Phillip paused in mixing the batter, leaning on the counter. “You’re selling?”

“Yeah. My partner and I have decided to move to Ireland. He wants to be closer to his parents, and I like it over here. We love our little house, but we’d rather sell than become long-distance landlords.”

“I get it. It’s a cool little place.” The so-called crap decor aside, which Phillip actually found kitschy, he liked it. Thomas’s presence played a big part of that, though, but its remote location and the serenity of the back gardens added appeal. Plus, New York was only a train ride away when Phillip got bored, and it was far enough from his family. “What are you asking?”

~*~

The smell of dark roast coffee and browning pancakes finally lured Thomas to the ground floor. He lingered as long as possible in his bedroom, showering until the water cooled and giving meticulous attention to his skincare routine. With Millicent tagging along behind his well-hung house guest, he lacked cat grooming as an excuse as well.

All through his ablutions, Phillip’s words echoed in his head and taunted him. The man, that sexy goofball marionette of a man, was right. Thomas had ample opportunity to toss out Phillip after the first night. He could have handed over an American twenty–in the guise of taxi fare, of course–and thanked him for a lovely introduction to homoerotic passion. No doubt he’d escape to the memories whenever the bank holiday crowds at Harrods tested his nerves. 

Instead, he let Phillip Still No Last Name Because This Is Temporary get under his skin. He offered coffee and ginger biscuits the first morning, and cooked steaks on Clyde Logan’s grill for supper that night. He made a production of putting on his hiking boots the second morning, then spent that evening surveying the pictures Phillip had taken of him at the gorge.

Well, it ended today. He had to tweeze out the splinter before it joined his anatomy. Pancakes, lift to the station, call Bea and beg her forgiveness. Plan in place, he grabbed his ringing phone and answered it on the stairs.

“McGregor here.”

A stream of curse words flowed out of the phone and into Thomas’s ear, until he pulled the device away. “I beg your pardon,” he said, then noticed the phone’s chrome exterior was missing his engraved name. Which meant…

He entered the kitchen just as Phillip plated a stack of three. “It’s for you,” he said, handing over the phone while he fixed himself a coffee.

“Thanks.” Phillip exchanged a plate for it and chuckled at the contact name on the screen. “You’ll get your damn money, Paul. First, I need the name of Mom’s lawyer. No, I’m not in jail.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s for a real estate purchase.”

Thomas sat at the kitchen table and cut into his pancakes. Multiple berries embedded in each layer resembled exploded paintballs, spreading color and juice. One bite convinced him to skip the syrup. “These are good,” he told Phillip when the other man ended the call.

“Thanks. But pancakes always taste better after sex.” Phillip grinned. “And I remembered you said you’re allergic to blackberries so I didn’t pick any.”

He remembered that? “Thank you.”

“Oh,” he slid over Thomas’s phone, “you missed a few calls.”

A sudden influx of bile in Thomas’s throat replaced the sweet tang of triple berry pancakes. He spotted Bea’s name on the call log and shot daggers at Phillip as the man speared large pancake squares into his mouth. “What did you tell her?” he demanded. 

“If you’re asking did I tell her we fucked, the answer is no.” Phillip talked with his mouth full. “But I won’t lie and say she didn’t figure it out.”

Thomas sighed and dropped his phone. “Well, it saves me from one item on my list,” he said. “Clyde Logan co-owns this house. Did he leave a message?”

“He did, and he won’t own it much longer.” Another grin. “They’re staying in Europe, and I’m buying the place.”

Thomas checked Phillip’s expression for any hint of mischief. No wide grins, no berry seeds wedged in his crooked teeth. “You’re serious,” he said. How to react? It wasn’t his house, and Mr. Logan and his partner were free to sell if they wished. Thomas assumed closing wouldn’t occur until after his holiday ended, so their home exchange was still honored.

“Well,” he said, toasting Phillip with his coffee mug, “congratulations then. It is a lovely cottage. I find it quite endearing, and I’m sure you’ll enjoy living here.”

Phillip shoved in another bite and said, “Fanks,” then swallowed. “Wanna stay a while longer?”

~*~

He chewed. He dug the tip of his tongue into the crevice of his back molar to expel a seed. He watched Thomas’s eyes widen, and he waited.

“I’m here for three more weeks,” Thomas said, “after which I return to London and my job. Mr. Logan and Mr. O’Malley will have to come home to sell, and I doubt you’ll close on this cottage before my scheduled holiday ends.”

Phillip shook his head. “Don’t be so sure. I move fast. I proved it two nights ago.” He enjoyed the rush of pink creeping up Thomas’s neck.

“Be that as it may,” Thomas said, smiling, “I have a life in London. I sell toys at Harrods.”

“So you’re the department manager there?”

Thomas paled, and his smile fell. “No, I lost that position to blatant nepotism.”

“Oh. Well, at least you still have your girl…oh, wait.”

“I’ll thank you not to twist that knife.” Thomas set down his cutlery with a clank and rose to clear his side of the table. “My life may not seem ideal to you, but it’s mine, and who’s to say it won’t improve?”

Phillip leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Is your backyard as lush and green as this one?” he asked. “With clear blue skies and colorful birds nesting in the trees? I caught you watching them jockey for position at the feeder the other day.”

“I do enjoy ornithology,” Thomas said, holding a faraway expression. “Not much variety in the birds perching on the windows of my flat. I’ll miss it here when I leave.”

“Miss it less and stay a while. If money’s an issue, I have some saved, and the cost of living isn’t so high here as in a big city. Plus all that space, lots of potential.” He got up and steered Thomas to the kitchen window. “You chose this cottage for a reason.” Not a question.

Thomas nodded. “I’d decorate differently, but there’s little about the gardens I’d change,” he said. “I’d plant more veg. Tomatoes.” He pointed to the far corner. “The blackberry bush would have to go. I can’t even touch them.”

“You’d make a killing at the local farmer’s market.” Phillip put his hands on Thomas’s waist, spanning his fingers. “Maybe we could expand the lot line out a bit, give you more room to plant.”

“My poor tomato plants at home are pathetic,” Thomas said. “They don’t get enough natural light.”

“Hydroponics are cool, too,” Phillip said. “We could get a license from the government, grow medicinal weed…”

“You keep saying we.”

Phillip nuzzled Thomas’s neck. “Stay a while longer. You go home to London, it rains constantly and you sleep alone. Here, you will get laid anytime you want.”

The tighter he held Thomas, the less resistance the man exhibited. In the distance a flock of red and brown cardinals descended upon the bird feeder and Millicent scratched at the metal post in a feeble attempt to catch one. Thomas shook with laughter in his arms. The place was selling itself; Phillip imagined he’d stay without the sex. But he’d have it.

“What do you say?” he asked.

“How long would you let me say?”

Phillip rested his chin on Thomas’s shoulder. “A month. A year. The rest of your life.”

“Sounds good.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Sam Fortner eased his foot off the gas pedal in order to maintain an inconspicuous gap between his pickup truck and the motorcycle speeding down the dark country road. His mark had turned off the highway a few miles back, and no cars turned with them. He counted two sets of headlights approaching in the opposite lane in the last fifteen minutes, meaning his mark lived in a sparsely populated area.

Fortuitous for Sam, no doubt. No witnesses to report a truck matching his. No immediate neighbors to pop in to see if that asshole had a cup of sugar to lend.

Sam, this is a bad idea.

“No, it isn’t,” Sam said aloud. “You saw how this guy disrespected me earlier. I’m trying to do my damn job and this no-talent hack thinks he can supplement his nightclub act by humiliating me in front of the waitstaff.”

I saw no such thing, Sam. I don’t shadow you at work. I’m not even physically sitting in this car with you.

The man on the motorcycle veered sharply off the road, slowing down a shallow driveway in front of a dark gingerbread cottage with one lamp in the window providing illumination. Sam passed the house and slowed until he reached the next intersection, and turned into a vacant lot.

He shifted to park but left the engine idle.

Sam, look at me.

Sam faced the projected image of Dr. Alan Strauss, his former therapist, relaxed in the passenger seat. He appeared as Sam saw him last–baggy chinos and a dad cardigan, more salt than pepper in his beard, the reverse on top. He returned the older man’s placating smile and sighed.

Tell me what happened.

“It’s the same old story, isn’t it?” Sam focused on his hands gripping the steering wheel. Even in the dark cab, he saw the blood draining from his knuckles and the color of his veins popping in the paleness of his skin. “I’m running down my checklist, inspecting every detail of a prep station. I take one step back just as somebody with no business in the kitchen short cuts through after his rehearsal and gets all pissed when we collide.

“He was rude, and obnoxious, and not just to me,” Sam continued. “He talked like he was drunk or high on something, and acted like he owned the damn place.” Talking helped, and hurt. Though Sam found some comfort in opening up to this conjured Dr. Strauss, he hated reliving the incident. It only increased the desire to sate his homicidal urges. 

“‘Do you know who I am? I could get you fired with one phone call.’” he mocked, then exhaled. “He was that kind of guy. Full of himself. He performed tonight, and I waited outside the club until he left, and followed him out here. I’m gonna do it, Dr. Strauss.”

Sam…

“I’ve been so good, too, damn it. I haven’t killed anybody since…” No point in details. Dr. Strauss knew, and this being a version playing out in Sam’s head, Sam implanted memories in the man as well as his next words.

Sam, if you pledged to kill every self-absorbed human being in this county alone, you’d never have time for anything else. Why not give this one a pass?

“Why?”

Entertainers are a different breed, Sam. They’re used to preferential treatment and crowds parting for them. Not many of them are well-educated like you and me, either.

“You, maybe.” Sam huffed. “You’ve always acted the complete opposite of assholes like him.”

It’s called empathy. We’ve talked about it. You won’t like what I’m about to say next, but rather than U-turn and confront that man in his own home, perhaps you should continue driving until you meet the highway again. Go home. Take a long, hot shower. Listen to your favorite music. Consider the likelihood that he had a bad rehearsal and feared it affecting tonight’s performance.

Of course, the real Dr. Strauss would have suggested all these things, and other distractions. Drive around a while longer. Stop for a late night doughnut and coffee. Drop in on the ex-wife. Sam no longer had the third option available to him, since he learned Mary was dating again. Forget coffee, too. He was already wound up, and he wanted an empty bladder for the drive home.

But first, a detour. The urge was too strong. 

“I’m sorry, Dr. Strauss. I tried,” he said, and glanced at the now empty passenger seat. Just as well his therapist, even the imaginary one, wasn’t here to witness his fall.

Again.

~*~

BAMBAMBAM

Henry McHenry, clad in black shorts and a green robe, erupted from a pleasant marijuana haze of a nap and rolled off the couch. He landed with a thud on the living room’s hardwood floor and emitted a loud “Fuck!” as a bolt of searing pain shot from his tailbone up his back. His head throbbed to a different beat, an unrelated ache, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose. 

Who in fuck’s name was knocking on his door? He bought this house primarily for its location–zero neighbors, but not so far away for unbearable commutes to gigs. If that wasn’t a forest ranger come to warn him to escape before the wildfire ravaged his property, Henry vowed to answer with his fist.

Henry cinched the terry belt around his waist and planted himself by the chained-up front door. “What do you want?” he barked, purposely deepening his voice for an element of intimidation.

“Boone Power and Light,” called a faltering voice. “We’re here to check the meter.”

The fuck? “This late?” Like hell he was falling for that.

“End of the month, sir. We have a quota and you’re last on a long list. You know how it is.”

Behind that voice, Henry heard a second one in a lower register. “He is not buying that bullshit.” To which the first voice replied, “Shut up, Nathan.”

Henry laughed to himself. They sounded like a fun couple. “It’s around back by the hot tub, just watch out for the cat. She scratches,” he called. “Do your business and fuck off.”

Nathan’s friend thanked him, and fell silent. Henry plowed through his sparsely decorated home, purchased hastily following his separation from wife Ann, and hovered by the window above the sink. The property showed nice when Henry visited during the open house. He fell in easily with one half of the couple selling. Phillip guided him through all the upgrades like the smart appliances and security setup, and the central vacuum system. Frees up our time for our favorite hobbies, the man told Henry, the hobbies being gardening and BDSM.

Henry had let the backyard shag out a bit, but he maintained the “playroom,” for which he offered extra money to keep intact. The sellers agreed on the condition that select items also convey, as they “came with the house,” or whatever. Pictures of people long dead and other trinkety crap. Henry packed it up and shoved the box into the back room by the rusting clawfoot tub.

It was a temporary arrangement, much like living here. He chose to buy instead of rent for the investment. He currently enjoyed a career high and Ann only wanted child support, so money wasn’t an issue.

Lack of privacy, though…

Henry listened to the muffled voices in the backyard and strained to make out two figures in the dark. Two men–one tall, pale and ginger-haired, the other short, tawny and bearded–more interested in the backyard space than the meter. They bickered like boyfriends, and Henry picked out odd phrases. Calibration of their devices, accounting for extra trees in the yard upon their arrival… he almost joined them, interested in what they were smoking.

Alas, more company. Henry whirled toward the sound of another sharp rap on the front door. “Fuck, what now?” he cried, just as a bright light exploded in his peripheral vision. 

He turned again. Silence in the backyard now, and no more Nathan and friend. Weird. Maybe he hallucinated them.

The knocking continued. Henry, a bit uneasy now, willed himself sober and went to answer it. The second he opened the door, he wanted to slam it back shut.

“Oh, Chri–” Henry sighed, boring a hard gaze down on the man at his doorstep. “The fuck do you want at this hour?”

“Good evening, McHenry.” The visitor, Ann’s musical accompanist whose name Henry kept forgetting, tilted up his chin and regarded Henry with obvious disdain. “I was on my way home from a performance when I decided to stop in to collect something that no longer belongs to you.”

Henry growled. “I believe you accomplished that when you ran off with my wife.”

“ Ex- wife.” The accompanist’s tone turned smug on that broken word. “Your divorce was finalized in court today. You should be receiving your copy of the decree soon,” he added, then peered into the house. “May I come in?”

“No.”

Henry pushed the door with all his strength and stormed back to the kitchen. He waited for the satisfying slam into the jamb, but instead heard a brief umph as the accompanist blocked the door with his body. Footfalls followed him to the back of the house. Henry ignored the man as he scanned his backyard to see where his meter reader prowlers were hiding.

“You are officially trespassing,” Henry then called behind him.

“McHenry, Ann gave you a family heirloom on your wedding day,” the man said. “It holds great sentimental value to her.”

“As it does to me.” Henry focused on the dim view of growing weeds and fungi blooming throughout the yard. “I’m keeping it.”

“Do you even know what it is?”

Henry flicked his gaze to the accompanist. A man standing a foot shorter ought to feel intimidated before six-foot-three Henry McHenry–acid-tongued comedian, the scourge of late night television, skewer of hecklers. Billionaire studio execs stepped back when he passed, but this guy… this nerdy little pianist with the flaring nostrils and stuck-up jaw, he had balls.

“Now let me think.” Henry slouched against the sink and tapped his chin. “It might be in this box I have in storage. Let’s have a look.”

He dragged out the file box containing all the crap Phillip Altman-McGregor left behind. Slamming it on the breakfast table, he plucked out the contents one by one. “Let’s see what we got,” he muttered. “Here’s a signed self-improvement book by some feel-good con artist. Maybe you might benefit from his wisdom.”

The accompanist shoved the book away when Henry poked him with it. “Henry…”

“Group snapshot in front of a pub… pic of a cute ginger twink with a one-handed hunk… letter written in French…” Henry studied that one. “You write this to her?”

“I don’t know French.”

Henry waved the framed letter, wanting to clock the accompanist over the head with it. “Ann’s French. J'ai appris à parler français pour elle .” I learned to speak French for her. “Surprised you didn’t bother.”

He enjoyed the aggravation clouding his unwanted guest’s face. “Henry,” the man said, clenching his fists, “if you don’t stop your clowning and cooperate, I swear I’ll…”

“You’ll what?” Henry picked at the rusted kitchen knife at the bottom of the box. It was affixed to a plaque like a mounted fish. More weird. “Hurt my feelings with a savage piano composition? You already took my family, you asshole. There’s no further damage for you to commit.”

“You took them for granted, Henry. You’re incapable of a sane, domestic life.”

Henry glared at him. The accompanist puffed up his chest and blathered on about his so-called qualifications. He loved Ann, and pledged to act as a role model for little Annette. “While I make decent money as a pianist now, one day I’ll become a conductor and lead Ann in the greatest operas ever written.” The accompanist curled his hands as though to strike. “I will guide mighty orchestras.”

“With those reedy claws? I bet Ann opens the pickle jars at home.”

“That’s it, Henry!” Swing and a miss. The accompanist meant to slam his fist on the table and whoosh . No doubt fueled by Henry’s amusement, he rounded the table and grabbed Henry by the robe lapels, pushing him harder against the counter.

Henry ducked to miss connecting with the cabinet. “Watch it!” he shouted, surprised by the accompanist’s strength. His attempt to brush the man away failed, and soon he was pinned against the sink counter with one hand wrapped around his throat while the accompanist reached into the box. 

“You see what these hands are also capable of?” the shorter man demanded. He’d pried the knife from its mount and now wielded it in a chopping motion. “I’d aim for your heart if you had one.”

Fuck. The end. Stabbed by his ex’s current lover in a crime of passion. Henry figured he’d die in a spectacular crash, or drop dead onstage in the middle of his act from a heart attack, or overdose, or a heart attack during sex. This seemed so anticlimactic. 

He chose not to watch it. He squeezed his eyes shut and braced for the end. 

Instead he breathed easier, and heard a strangled cry.

~*~

When Sam arrived, he noticed the motorcycle parked in the drive. A Porsche two-seater was parked around the corner and the front door of the house wide open. Loud, angry voices sounded from within, leaving Sam to consider the Porsche’s owner also had a score to settle with his would-be victim.

Witnesses, Sam, Dr. Strauss chided in his mind. Best to turn around.

Sam ignored his conscience disguised as his therapist. Stepping into the house, he saw shadows in the distance in the sliver of kitchen visible from the living room. He heard insults exchanged, fury expressed, then feet scuffling over the tile floor. Sam crept closer, risking discovery to satisfy his curiosity, and the sight he beheld inspired him to spring into action.

The taller of the duo fighting in the kitchen wore his black hair long and his green robe open and slipping off his shoulders. The shorter one, his back to Sam, brandished a weapon. Likely unwarranted.

Sam charged. The force of his body hitting the pianist who harassed him at the nightclub tonight, the man he chased on the motorcycle, sent the knife clattering to the floor. The wild-eyed pianist connected to the tiles with his shoulder blades, and he looked up at Sam with shock as he was straddled.

“What the hell, man? Who are you?”

“You motherfucking asshole. You don’t even remember me,” Sam said, hands loose around the man’s throat. “‘I could get you fired with one phone call.’ That ring a bell?”

The pianist rolled his head on the floor. “I say that to a lot of people.”

“It’s true,” said the other man. “He said it to me once, and I wasn’t even working at the time.”

Sam, get off him and get out of there.

“Shut up!” Sam yelled. Both men quieted after that. He gave his attention once again to the one underneath him. “I’ll teach you to show people some respect, especially hard-working people in food service.”

He squeezed the pianist’s throat. The man’s eyes bulged and he called out for “Henry” to intervene.

Henry, closing up his robe, instead watched. “That’s right, you prick,” he said to the pianist. “You tip your fucking servers.”

Sam continued choking him, having silenced all the voices of reason in his mind. As with the others, he seemed to float a bit out of his body as he meted out his punishment. He no longer felt the fading pulse of his victim, or the struggle to keep breathing. The man kicked out his legs and squirmed, but Sam was a dead weight. In seconds, it was over and the pianist exhaled his last, his lifeless eyes aimed at the ceiling.

“Damn it,” Sam said, hanging his head. He failed, again. 

“Thank you.”

He looked up at Henry’s words. This man looked familiar. Such a unique face, presently soft with relief. Sam panned his gaze from Henry’s pouty lower lip to his smooth, tight chest exposed in the open vee of his robe. Where had he seen that…?

“Duck Tape Bar and Grill,” he said.

“What about it?” Henry asked.

“They had an open mic night there last month. It was last on my list to inspect that day, and I got there as the show started; you got up and did a comedy act.” Allegedly. Henry’s brand of humor didn’t mesh well with the Duck’s patronage; Sam was the only one who applauded afterward.

Henry’s expression lightened with recognition. “Oh, yeah. I think I remember you. Hang on.” He pushed away from the sink and circled the pianist’s body, Sam still straddled on him. “There was a guy who looked like you at the bar, I was checking out… hey, push your ass out a bit?”

Sam obliged. Henry smiled. “Ah, yeah. I remember you now.”

“You were cruising me at a redneck bar?”

Henry shrugged. “Take the opportunities when you can,” he said. “You don’t… have to leave right away, do you?”

Seriously, Sam?

Mentally, Sam waved for Alan to be quiet. “I mean,” he said, “I literally just killed a man in his own kitchen.”

“No, this is my house.” Henry tapped his chest. “He came in uninvited. We argued, he attacked me, then you came in, so technically this was all self-defense.”

Self-defense. Sam had to let that one sink in. He stared down at the dead man turning cold between his thighs. 

Dr. Strauss?

In his head, he heard his therapist sigh. Assuming he’s telling the truth, he has a point, Sam. I suppose we can excuse this one from your body count.

So… I didn’t fail?

Not this time.

Well, that was a relief. Sam raised a hand in a silent request for help, and Henry pulled him to his feet. The sharp tug brought their bodies together and Sam reared back after sensing a hard jab on his hip.

He looked at Henry. “Are you… is that a hard-on?”

“Uh, yeah.” Henry opened his robe to show off the tenting in his shorts. “I’m an ass man, and you have a nice ass,” he said. “Be assured my arousal has nothing to do with witnessing you kill some jackass in my kitchen. Your boner, however, I can’t speak for…”

Huh? “Shit.” Sam checked his pants. Hard as a rock. “Yeah, that happens sometimes. I was working with a therapist on it.”

“ I could work with you on it.” Henry moved closer, turning his hand in a cup position aimed on target.

Sam met Henry’s smile with one of his own. It had been a while, and Dr. Strauss once recommended that a romantic or sexual relationship might supplant his desires to do harm.

But now Dr. Strauss’s voice, though faint, enunciated clearly in the back of his head. Sam, maybe deal with the body first?

~*~

“The body,” Sam said. “What are we doing with it?”

Henry toed the dead man’s temple. The pianist’s head rolled to one side and his mouth gaped open. Good question. “Normally, in situations like this, people call the police. I’m not exactly normal myself.”

“Yeah, same,” Sam shook his head. “Maybe there’s an alternative solution? I would prefer not to get the authorities involved for… reasons.”

Henry, thinking of his numerous scrapes with the law, agreed. “Well, I have a big backyard–”

The rest went unsaid as streams of bright white light shot through the cracks of the laundry room door off the kitchen. A loud thumping noise followed.

Sam grasped his arm, and they ended up hugging each other. “The hell was that? A power surge?” he cried.

The answer came when the door opened and out tumbled three men, two of whom were the so-called meter readers prowling his property. Up close, in the light, they appeared harmless, as did the third person–tall, short dark hair, browline glasses–with them. The one with the beard held up a broken pencil when he spotted Sam and Henry.

“Can you believe that tub is still here? Oh, hi guys. We found it,” he announced, smiling as he reached for the back kitchen door. “We’ll be on our way now, thank you for your cooperation.”

Henry flicked his gaze to Sam, who looked as confused as he felt. They wouldn’t have to kill them, too, right? “How did you get into my house?” he asked.

“The door was open.” Beard pointed to the laundry room. 

“There’s no entrance that way.”

The tall redhead stepped forward. “Well, you see, we…” He stopped when his gaze landed on the dead body. “Oh, hell.”

The newcomer chose that moment to regain cognizance. “So this is the same house, fifty years later?” he asked, looking around in wide-eyed wonder. “You weren’t kidding, we actually traveled through–”

Beard clamped a hand on the guy’s mouth. The staring standoff lasted about five seconds until he said, “We won’t say anything if you don’t.”

“Deal,” Henry said, “but help us get rid of the body?”

“Sure.”

~*~

Turned out the Porsche belonged to the strange bearded man, who introduced himself as Nathan. The tall ginger escorted the confused bespectacled man outside, while the bearded man shooed Sam and Henry out of the kitchen. He strapped a smart watch around the accompanist's wrist and flicked his gaze at them. “I’m gonna need the kitchen for a few seconds,” he said. “Maybe don’t be here.”

No need to repeat. Sam let Henry guide him on a tour of the upstairs, beginning and ending with a guest room full of kink equipment. He whistled at the setup. Soft, curved furniture for fucking lined the floor. A pegboard on one wall displayed all manner of cuffs, floggers, and other sensory devices. Sam drifted close and inspected a heavy chain, not unlike the type he used back home. “Wow. You designed this yourself?”

“It came with the place. Long story,” Henry said. “Actually, it isn’t. Former owners were freaks. Nice freaks, though, they didn’t charge extra to let me keep everything…”

A flash of bright light, accompanied by a vibration through the walls, traveled from downstairs. Two seconds later it happened again. “Dirty deed’s done!” called Nathan from the stairs. “I’ll see myself out.”

Sam held Henry’s puzzled stoner gaze. “Do we even…?”

“No.”

“Right.” Sam switched his attention to the hooks on the ceiling. “How do you use those?”

Henry grinned. “How about I show you? Do you have a preference? I’m a switch if it helps.”

Sam inspected the chains attached to the buckled leather cuffs. They reminded him of similar equipment he used at home when Dr. Strauss stayed as his long term guest. That ankle cuff and chain limited the therapist’s range of movement but hardly counted as bondage of a sexual nature, though Sam had to admit the notion of keeping Dr. Strauss bound to his will excited him once.

Seriously, Sam? 

You’re not a bad-looking man, Dr. Strauss.

I really don’t want to be here for this. 

No worries. Sam dismissed all thoughts of Dr. Strauss and granted Henry consent to have his way.

Henry dropped his robe, showing off a hard pack and tight legs. “You next,” he ordered, and as Sam undressed he gathered four cuffs with short chains. He showed Sam how to operate the safety releases and they agreed on a safe word: shoes . It reminded Sam of one of his favorite songs, though for this encounter he wore none, or anything else.

“Put your feet here.” Henry pointed out the two clips on the floor which were parallel to the ceiling hooks. Once Henry fastened the chained cuffs to their respective points, Sam looked down and around himself to see he formed a human X, taut and left to Henry McHenry’s mercy. 

Henry selected a leather flogger from the pegboard. “Do you want a blindfold? Personally, I like to see what’s happening, but if you want the added sensory deprivation I’m cool with it.”

“No, thanks.” Sam preferred to see as much of Henry topping him as possible. Never before had he submitted to a lover this way, and it amazed him how easily he agreed to let a man he barely knew confine him like this. Something about Henry called him to bend his will; funny how a man who seemed as self-destructive as he brought out the calm in him.

Henry twirled the flogger in his large hand and walked a slow circle around Sam’s chained body, silently assessing him. “Fuck, you look amazing like this,” he said. “Your limbs are stretched out and the backs of your thighs look tight.” He dragged the flat leather tails of the flogger up Sam’s left calf to the lower curve of his buttock. “Such a sweet ass, too. I could kneel here behind you and eat every inch of it.”

Fuck. Sam quivered in his restraints. The chains jangled all around him. “Nobody’s ever done that to me before.”

“No?” Henry stood flush behind him, pulling the flogger along Sam’s side and down his chest. To wake up his skin, Henry explained, because kink play wasn’t necessarily about having somebody tan your hide. “There’s a give and take involved,” Henry added. “I can’t enjoy this if you’re not having fun, and it’s important that you trust me to take care of you through the entire session.”

“Okay.” Sam affixed to the floor and ceiling should have been consent enough, but he appreciated how Henry observed all the protocols. “Tell me what to do.”

Henry dropped a kiss on Sam’s shoulder and continued caressing with the flogger. He brushed the tails around Sam’s neck and down to his cock, encouraging his erection. “Just react, and remember your safe word when you need it,” Henry said, and kissed him long and deep before walking around to Sam’s backside. With his free hand, Henry surveyed the expanse of Sam’s pale skin, enjoying every twitch and shiver as he traced his fingers down the man’s spine to the curve of his hip.

“You’ll look amazing,” he said. “I can’t decide how to stripe your body. Do I go horizontal or diagonal?” Maybe waves, leaving Sam looking like a stick of Fruit Stripe gum. Henry gave him fair warning when he sent the tips of the flogger tails licking at his ass, the back of his thighs, his upper flanks. Henry watched Sam’s head hang low, and listened for his moans of approval. He learned to interpret the pitch of the man’s voice–a lower register encouraged him, while a high wail warned him to dial it back.

It went on for about thirty minutes, until Henry dropped the flogger and leaned in and released Sam first at the wrists. “What is it?” Sam asked, sounding hazy and disappointed. “What did I do wrong?”

“Absolutely nothing.” Henry scooped Sam into his arms. “Just moving to phase two.”

~*~

Oh, that felt good.

Sam lay on his stomach in Henry’s bed, sinking further into the mattress as his body relaxed. His inexperience with kink hadn’t prepared him for aftercare, or Henry’s large and heavy hands rubbing away the multitude of sharp stings along his back and ass. Henry slicked his palms with some kind of massage oil, fragrant with citrus blossoms and vanilla, before soothing Sam’s nerves.

Turned out, too, the oil worked well as lube. Henry started out gentle as he fucked Sam, but Sam encouraged him to get rough. For that kind of play, he welcomes no holds barred. 

“What are you thinking about?” Henry asked him afterward as they lay, tangled and sweating, in the sheets.

Sam rested his head on Henry’s chest. “My therapist,” he said. “Not in a prurient way. Usually when strange things happened in my life he helped sort out my thoughts. I wish I could talk to him now.”

“Me, too. I mean my therapist. He just up and disappeared one day.”

Huh. Imagine that. Sam sniffed the air. “Are you eating a banana?” Had Henry kept one by the bed? He wasn’t paying attention.

Henry nodded, his cheeks bulging as he chewed. “Good for regulating blood sugar,” he said, mouth full. He swallowed and added, “Did you want one?” as he reached for the other two on the nightstand.

“I’m good.” Sam closed his eyes, lulled back to rest by the rise and fall of Henry’s deep breathing. The sex and the discipline, especially the latter, improved his temper. He laughed softly to himself, thinking that if he’d gotten flogged and laid before running into that pianist, he might have been mellowed out enough to let the man live. Of course, it meant the pianist would likely have harmed Henry. And he wasn’t even taking those strange meter readers into account.

Funny how everything worked out, huh, Dr. Strauss?

Yes, Sam. Dr. Strauss sounded tired in Sam’s head. One day we’ll all look back on today and laugh.

Chapter Text

For Paterson, it was love at first sight. 

The cottage’s exterior nowhere near resembled that of his home in New Jersey, but Paterson nonetheless picked out parallels. A quiet neighborhood. A sparse front lawn requiring little, if any maintenance. A vibe of comfort and positivity he desperately sought after a rough year.

Despite his tenuous relationship with religion and deities in general, he sent up a quick prayer to anyone listening. He’d come such a long way, and while he arranged for a Plan B he hoped to win this temporary house sitting position.

“Please, call me Ashley,” the young woman said in invitation as they shook hands at the door. She was about to leave for Japan on a year-long fellowship, though Paterson’s tenure here would only be about three months. If Ashley selected him, of course.

Ashley settled in a leather swivel chair opposite the matching sofa where she guided Paterson. After the expected niceties–offering tea, asking about Paterson’s trip here–she explained the situation. “Originally, my mother planned to stay the full year, but her job is keeping her on the West Coast longer than expected. “It’s actually still her house, though she hasn’t lived here in about six years. She bought it with my father before I was born.” Ashley cut her gaze from Paterson for a second, and he detected a flicker of sadness in her expression. It wasn’t necessary to know the entire history of the house, but that brief pause told him more than Ashley likely intended to share.

He listened quietly, teacup resting on his knee, as Ashley explained the cottage’s amenities and his responsibilities. He had access to an upgraded kitchen and satellite TV and WiFi. She hired a landscaping company to care for the backyard gardens every two weeks. The cat that hung around the property, Millicent, fended for herself but Ashley kept food out just in case. The hot tub worked, as did the clawfoot tub in the laundry room. “We don’t use them much, since it runs up the water and energy bills,” she added with a laugh, an obvious hint.

Paterson nodded. “I’m fine with using a shower, if there’s one upstairs.”

“In the main bedroom, yes. The second room… I’d prefer to keep shut.”

Understood. Paterson figured it for a private office. A question formed in his mind, but faded when a noise from upstairs caught his attention. 

“That might be the cat,” Ashley said quickly, scooting to the edge of her chair. “Sometimes she slips into the house without my knowing. I’ll check later, she can’t get into too much trouble upstairs.”

As the interview progressed, Paterson relaxed and opened up about himself to Ashley, and his reasons for his extended leave from New Jersey. When they’d finished the last of the tea and cookies between them, he decided that even if Ashley selected somebody else, he was glad for the opportunity to visit the house and absorb its ambiance. Ashley talked of all the work her mother (no mention of her father past this point) had put into renovating the place. “The previous owner was rather eccentric, Mom said.” Ashley laughed again. “He was somewhat famous, too. Rumored to have killed his ex-wife’s lover, but they never found the man’s body so who knows? Do you have any questions for me, Paterson?”

After that reveal, no. Paterson stood to wish Ashley luck on her fellowship and gasped in surprise when she offered him the position. “Granted, it won’t pay much, but you have run of the kitchen and pantry,” she said, “as well as the garden yield, though there isn’t much growing at the moment.”

“It’s fine. I accept.” He had enough in savings to get him through the quarter, if necessary. Anyway, Paterson’s goal in obtaining the job wasn’t about the money. He wanted the solitude and the change of scenery.

Most of all, he wanted to forget the last year.

~*~

Ashley left for the airport on a Monday. Paterson checked out of his hotel and arrived via rideshare at the cottage shortly after her departure. He found the key in the designated flower pot and immediately settled in for the afternoon. When the quiet inspired a touch of cabin fever, he turned on the television for white noise and fixed a sandwich. Seated at the Fifties-style kitchen dinette, he alternated between bites of his lunch and jotting down words in his journal to edit later.

One Christmas you gave me a digital watch
to replace the simple analog model I used to own.

The crystal was cracked and it allowed water
to fog up inside so I couldn’t read the time.

Your watch doubled as a pedometer so I
could keep track of my daily step count.

I set a personal best today, having walked
so far away from you…

Paterson re-read his work in progress and cringed. Total crap. Not that he considered himself a poet on the level of William Carlos Williams, far from it, but he was capable of better verse.

He closed the journal, unwilling to touch it until tomorrow. Perhaps he needed time to adjust to his new surroundings, especially the settling noises typical with any old house.

That one loud bang, though, seemed out of the ordinary. Paterson remembered the cat and suspected she found a way inside again, and was causing havoc. Leaving his sandwich half-eaten, he followed the sounds up the stairs. 

Everything in the bedroom remained as he’d left it. No cat paws seemed to have poked inside his luggage, and no bottles in the bathroom had toppled. That left the spare room, and while Paterson promised to stay out he dreaded taking responsibility for damage done during his residence. Just a quick peek from the threshold, he decided as he tried the knob and found the door locked. 

He lifted his gaze, then his hand, to the top ledge and slid his finger around until he detected a key. He’d return it right afterward. Ashley wouldn’t have to know he looked…

…but the tall, red-haired man standing in the middle of the room, staring open-mouthed at Paterson, might give him away later.

~*~

Colored pottery shards littered the floor. A vase, likely, or a simple pot. Paterson saw no broken flowers or puddles, but the stranger’s bare feet concerned him more than an easily cleaned mess. “Don’t move,” Paterson told the man.

“It was an accident. I was reaching for one of the puzzle books on the shelf.” 

Paterson nodded. Not an important detail. “There might be smaller slivers on the floor,” he said. “You don’t want to cut your feet.” Who are you? How did you get in the house? Why aren’t you attacking me? Many other questions filled his head, and yet he focused on this person’s safety first. A carryover from his job training, seeing to the welfare of all passengers on his bus route. 

This interloper appeared unbothered by the prospect of stepping on sharp objects. He stood tall, close to Paterson’s height, and wore a black tank top and tight gray sweatpants. He had pale skin and bright eyes, and as the sunlight from the only window in the room hit his back it illuminated the strands of hair loosened from his short hairstyle. The effect added a golden aura to his presence. 

Like an angel. Yet, Paterson hesitated as he stepped forward, well aware it might be a disguise.

“That’s not a concern for me. I don’t feel pain and I can’t bleed. Watch.”

“Wait!”

Paterson’s warning went unheeded, and he watched in horror as the man planted his bare heel square on the jagged edge of the vase’s separated neck. Lifting his leg, the man then pulled away the pottery and showed Paterson the gaping tear in his skin. “Check this out,” he said, grinning, and his skin fused back to “normal.” No blood, no scars.

He met Paterson’s gaze, unfazed. “My name is Ash, and you are Paterson,” he said. “Ashley didn’t tell you about me.”

“No.” At least, he thought she hadn’t. He remembered the garden, the hot tub, and the cat. “I don’t understand why she’d hire me to house sit if somebody else already lived here.”

Ash gave him a soft smile. “I better explain it, then.”

~*~

Ash declined Paterson’s offer of tea and lunch. Paterson suggested they talk downstairs, but not before he cleared away the broken vase. “Ashley advised me not to enter this room,” he explained afterward, “but I can’t in good conscience leave a mess.”

“She meant well. Don’t be angry with her.” Ash sat opposite Paterson in the kitchen and watched him finish lunch. “I guess she wasn’t certain how you would react to me. Also, I was supposed to remain quiet, so if she asks I will accept full responsibility.”

Paterson pushed aside his empty plate, still processing that the cottage’s owner was hiding an actual person in her home. Locked in an upstairs room with no food. It spoke of pure cruelty to Paterson, yet Ash sat across from him at the kitchen table with a pleasant expression as though nothing unusual happened.

“I have questions, but perhaps you should start,” he told Ash, and mentally strapped in for the ride.

Ash straightened his posture, pressing his palms on the table. “Have you heard of Grief Assistance AI?”

“Yes.” Big news a few years back. Paterson recalled one televised expose on a tech company that devised artificial intelligence to mimic the deceased. Surviving families fed information on their loved ones–everything from home video to social media content–to various manufacturers and received AI versions for interaction. An innovation meant for comfort, yes, but resulting in a severe backlash. 

“All those companies were shut down,” Paterson said as he related what he knew. “One produced a glitchy AI that accidentally assaulted someone. Another person tried to get an AI modeled after some dead actor. Just a lot of weird stuff. The government had to step in and regulate it.”

“I am an early model, an artificial intelligence based on Ash Starmer, Ashley’s biological father,” Ash said, without emotion. “The original Ash died in a car accident shortly after he and Ashley’s mother bought this house.”

That explained the touch of sadness radiated from Ashley that day. The poor woman never knew her real dad, then. “So… Ashley’s mother had you created.”

“No, a well-meaning friend arranged for it. However, it was Martha’s decision to upgrade me to the physical model.” Ash gestured to himself. “She seemed happy with me in the beginning, but gradually came to the realization that I am a poor substitute for the man she loved.” Again, no emotion. Just a matter-of-fact conclusion that tore at Paterson’s heart for a different reason.

He nearly moved his hand to cover one of Ash’s, to offer sympathy. Yet, if the AI felt no pain… “Other people returned their AIs to the companies, or ceded them to the government for… disposal,” he said. He hated to voice it. Ash looked too much like a human being for Paterson to think differently.

“Martha decided to keep me for Ashley’s sake. Ash Starmer died before she was born, and Martha figured I’d serve better as a memorial to him for her daughter. I’m not her father, though, and Martha never expected me to replace him in that way.” Ash turned his gaze toward the window, staring out at the garden. Paterson blinked, certain he noticed a moment of wistful longing in those bright eyes. A nanosecond of humanity, the ghost of Ash Starmer demanding acknowledgement. 

Just as quickly, it disappeared and Ash faced him again. “As for why Ashley hired you to house sit instead of leaving that responsibility to me,” he said, “she told me it was for my safety. If you’re aware of Grief Assistance AI, you know there’s an active movement against the models that remain in circulation.”

“I’ve seen it.” The issue came up in New Jersey when a man claimed his Grief Assistant shouldn’t have to pay bus fare because “she” wasn’t human. It brought up the question of whether or not AIs should even ride on mass transit, for public safety concerns. Paterson’s union threatened to strike over it.

“Ashley wants me to remain hidden,” Ash said.

“I hear the Japanese are more tolerant of AI, though.” Paterson thought of a friend from there, a fellow Williams enthusiast with whom he corresponded. “Why couldn’t you join her on her fellowship?”

Ash turned toward the laundry room. “In order for me to stay operational, I cannot venture eighty feet past my activation point without my administrator, Martha.” He got up from the table and opened the laundry door, revealing the antique clawfoot tub. “That’s where I was born, so to speak.”

“I see,” Paterson said. “When Martha comes home I guess you’ll be able to travel with her, if it’s safe.”

Ash closed the door; it barely made a sound. “Martha’s the one who locked me in that room, twenty-four years ago. This is the first time since that I’ve come downstairs.”

Paterson’s body turned cold, and tensed. He gripped his tea glass hard and his fingers slid along the surface, helped by the condensation. 

“It’s changed so much since I got out of the tub,” Ash was saying as he drifted around the kitchen. “These cabinets are new, and that coffee maker–”

“How are you not angry with them?” Paterson cut in. He was livid on Ash’s behalf. “You are a literal prisoner in this home, and Ashley won’t even allow you to sit in the garden? This cottage is fairly remote. If the anti-AI movement isn’t already aware of you, how are they going to tell if they see a young man sitting in his backyard?” He was close to shaking, and while he expected an answer from Ash he already knew it. He was talking to an AI, one likely capable of displaying emotion but not necessarily experiencing it.

Ash could show anger or upset, but in the end he’d served his purpose and his handlers preferred to store him away like a keepsake–no longer useful but too full of sentimental value to discard. Paterson hated to think of anyone else treated that way.

“You have to understand, Paterson, Ash Starmer’s life is over. Has been for decades,” Ash said, and returned to his seat. “I am merely the embodiment of what recordings of him were left behind. Had Martha submitted any content of Ash complaining about confinement or being sent to his room as punishment, be assured I would have expressed resentment to them.”

Paterson noticed how Ash glanced out the window every few seconds as he spoke. He followed that line of vision and discovered the distraction. A small brown bunny nestled near one of the berry bushes, munching on clover. Millicent prowled nearby and stretched her body in predator pose, ready to strike. Seconds later, the cat sprang forward and the bunny sped toward the tool shed and presumed safety. 

He laughed, as did Ash. Paterson side-eyed his new acquaintance, struck by Ash’s soft countenance and the natural response to animal shenanigans. Watching him, Paterson wanted to believe he was dealing with more than a walking projector of a dead man’s voice and mannerisms. He acknowledged, too, his thoughts opened many avenues to debate–whether or not Ash the AI deserved a chance to live, be it in place of the man from whom he evolved or independently of him.

This meant Paterson had to admit his personal biases. “Ash,” he said, “you knew my name when we met. You had that advantage over me.”

Ash met his eyes again. “Ashley wanted to update me on the house situation, is all.”

“Did she tell you why I’m here?” When Ash shook his head, Paterson took a deep breath. “I am a bus driver for NJ Transit in Paterson, New Jersey. I’ve lived there all my life, and aside from an early stint in the military I haven’t traveled much. Over the years at work, I have accrued many vacation hours. They roll over every year when I don’t use them. Do you follow?”

“Yes.”

Paterson sucked in his lower lip and released, looking down at the table. “I was married. Laura. She was kind and beautiful and encouraged my writing,” he said. “Laura had ambitions of her own. She baked cupcakes, thinking she’d establish a business and launch a chain of shops, like Mrs. Field’s. She learned the guitar, thinking she might become a famous country singer like Dolly Parton. She dreamed, often.”

Ash smiled. It made him ache.

“One day, she came with me to a bar I frequent, on an open mic night. She sang, and everybody applauded.” The events played out in Paterson’s head but this time he fought the tears that usually accompanied them. “A man was there, said he was a talent agent. He told Laura he wanted to represent her and make her dreams come true. Long story short, Laura told me she no longer wanted to bake cupcakes in our modest little home in New Jersey, and she left.” 

He looked away from Ash. “Basically, she did to me what Martha did to you. Decided I was a poor substitute for the life she wanted. Locked me away in a place she never intended to revisit. Only difference is you were put into a room. My room was all of Paterson, at least until the HR director at work informed me that if I didn’t use my leave soon it would all expire. I’d accrued three months, so here I am.

“Ash,” this time he reached for Ash’s hand and was relieved when the AI didn’t flinch, “if you don’t want to sit in that room alone for the next three months, you’re welcome to spend the time with me. I thought I wanted to be by myself, but maybe I’m meant to share my loneliness.”

Ash squeezed his hand. “I will stay with you,” he said. “I am programmed to give comfort and companionship, and I have no one else here who wants it.”

~*~

Paterson noticed changes in Ash’s behavior in the first few days of their acquaintance. The more they talked, Ash’s posture relaxed and his tone became more conversational and less robotic. Though he had not seen anyone besides Martha and Ashley in twenty-four years, Ash adjusted quickly. Paterson controlled the topics at first, a challenge in itself as he wasn’t a talkative person, but Ash contributed his share as the days passed. Paterson soon learned that Ash could access the Internet through his “positronic brain,” basically his CPU, and did so to stay current on world news. They had great talks.

Since the spare room lacked a bed, Paterson didn’t want Ash sitting or standing through the night, and invited him to share the bed and at least give the impression of sleep. “It’s big enough for both of us,” Paterson said, holding back how he slept better with another presence close at hand. Laura’s departure had turned him into an insomniac, and Ash helped in that regard.

Without any prompting from Paterson, Ash took on human mannerisms like breathing and blinking, and even made time for himself whenever Paterson found the inspiration to write. A few weeks into this new arrangement, Paterson scrawled the final line in a new poem, an improvement from his last attempt, and walked outside in search of Ash. He found his new friend in one of the Adirondack chairs by the fire pit, Millicent on his lap.

Ash was idly scratching behind the cat’s ears while Millicent rested her chin on Ash’s bare knee, her eyes pinched shut and her tail curling in all directions. Paterson said nothing as he lowered himself into the other chair. He enjoyed the moment for what it was, and words formed in his mind.

I should like to live as a cat
Lying carefree in the sun
While you rake your fingertips
Across my orange-gold fur

“Have you finished writing for the day?” Ash said. Used to be, Paterson asked all the questions. He liked how Ash took the initiative and showed interest.

“I have. I’m thinking about dinner now. Maybe macaroni.”

Ash stopped petting the cat. Millicent, clearly annoyed by losing the attention, leaped away. “I have a question,” he said. “Do you call it sauce or gravy?”

Good one. Paterson shrugged. “It depends on where in New Jersey you live. As I understand it, early Italians there would call pasta sauce ‘gravy’ in order to better assimilate themselves in their communities. Pass themselves off as less ethnic.”

“But I asked, what do you call it?”

And Ash smiled, and his eyes sparkled in a way that seemed human.

Paterson smiled back.

~*~

Paterson and Ash went to bed at the same time, even though Paterson assured his friend it wasn’t necessary. “If you want to read or work on your puzzles, it’s fine.” Some nights, while Paterson worked on his poetry in the living room, he’d glance up at Ash sitting quietly with his eyes closed. An outsider might assume Ash was napping, but Paterson saw by the way Ash’s eyes rolled under their lids that he consumed some kind of media. Rather futuristic and wild to be able to watch full movies in your head; Paterson envied Ash sometimes for that ability.

“I like being on your schedule,” Ash said, settling the matter. Paterson didn’t bring it up again. 

With every passing night, Ash inched a bit closer in bed. Paterson usually slept on his back, and of late woke up to Ash facing him. One morning, he opened his eyes to find his arm draped around Ash while the other man nestled against his side.

“Good morning, Paterson.”

Paterson hesitated before speaking. Something was different today, aside from the fact he held Ash like they were lovers. He thought back to the day he discovered Ash in the locked room, and the ice cold sensation of Ash’s touch. At the time, Paterson assumed Ash’s environs contributed to his body temperature. Everything he’d read about Grief Assistance AI since intimated that the physical models remained cool to the touch in order to preserve their internal mechanisms.

Ash felt warm this morning. Paterson pulled him closer and slid his hand down Ash’s back. He expected to feel cooler spots where their skin didn’t touch, and turned toward Ash to inspect the rest of his body. They lay together under a thin sheet, and it took Paterson three seconds to realize Ash wore nothing.

“Good morning, Ash,” he said, still rubbing his palm over Ash’s smooth hip and the back of his thigh, then back up to his hairless chest. He ought to stop, he knew, since he hadn’t asked for Ash’s consent to be touched this way. Paterson thought of Ash as a man now, not an AI. Nothing about Ash came off as automated or artificial, and in Paterson’s mind it meant Ash had the right to give or refuse consent.

“There’s something I must tell you.” Ash’s voice came out hushed, and Paterson retracted both hands. Ash’s soft sigh hinted at disappointment, but Paterson wanted to clear up any misunderstandings before they bloomed into greater conflicts. He was still hazy from sleep, and his body woke well before his head. Paterson felt it between his legs. 

“Ash, I’m sorry for touching you without asking first–”

They lay together with their faces aligned on the same large pillow, close enough to kiss. Ash silenced Paterson’s apology with a brief press of his lips on Paterson’s jaw. Their noses connected at that moment, too. A boop, Laura would have called it before laughing. Once it confused him, but now he wanted more.

“I dropped that vase on purpose,” Ash said, “because I wanted you to find me.”

Slowly, Paterson sat up in bed and Ash followed suit. They separated and held the sheet to their waists, upright with their faces turned to each other. Ash’s news surprised and confused him. “Me, specifically,” he said, “or any person in general coming to house sit? However you answer, it’s fine. If I were locked up in a small space for over twenty years, I’d open the door for the devil himself.”

A faint pink stained Ash’s cheeks. Weeks ago, Paterson would have guessed it part of Ash’s programming, but he wasn’t so certain now. “You know I can access the Internet,” he said, and tapped the side of his head. “What I haven’t told you, or Ashley, is that I figured out how to hack into other databases.”

“Hacking.”

Ash nodded. “Newspaper archives, city and state records. When Ashley told me you were coming, I researched you,” he said. “I read a local website article on you. They named you Bus Driver of the Year.”

“That was a long time ago.” Paterson smiled, remembering the day.

“I found pictures from an elementary school career day. You were surrounded by children. They were looking at you with such awe. You seemed so kind,” Ash said, staring ahead at the wall facing them. “When you came for your interview, I picked the lock and sneaked out to the top of the stairs for a peek.”

Paterson remembered the noise. Ashley had blamed the cat; she looked nervous because she feared discovery of her secret. 

“I saw you with Ashley and…” Ash shook his head. “I wish I could explain it. I wasn’t programmed for intuition, but when I saw you I deduced we could become friends. Martha no longer wants me, I’m in the way of Ashley’s ambitions, and I have no one else–”

He stopped when Paterson took his hand and squeezed. Still warm. “Ash,” he said, “I think you’re evolving.”

“Yeah. I am.” Ash’s eyes brightened in color. Paterson held his gaze and his heart dropped. He thought that at first, but looked closer. 

He swore he saw tears forming.

“I must be,” Ash said, “because since my activation I’ve only ever given of myself. Now, I want. I want…”

And he edged closer, surprising Paterson as he ripped away the sheet and pressed his body against Paterson’s boxers and white t-shirt.

And he took.

~*~

“Do I want to ask which part of the Internet you accessed to learn that?”

He lay on top of Ash’s back in bed, his spent cock still wedged in the other man’s ass, his breathing labored. He worried about crowding Ash or risking damage, but Ash assured him of his resilience. The AI remained soft to the touch and hard in the places that counted. His reactions throughout their lovemaking conditioned Paterson to think he was fucking a real man, and now that they were resting–again–he accepted it as the truth.

He kissed the back of Ash’s neck and along his shoulders, encouraged when the other man sighed. He rolled onto his back and Ash crawled on top of him, returning the kisses all over his face. 

“It might be best you didn’t ask,” Ash said, grinning. His sense of humor evolved as well, and Paterson let the matter go.

Crossing the threshold from friends to lovers filled the subsequent days with increasing passion and inspiration. Paterson filled his notebooks, and Ash sated Paterson’s skin hunger in addition to his own growing needs. The only downside to their time together was that it passed more quickly than either wanted.

On a sunny afternoon, while they sat together in the freshly trimmed backyard, Paterson received a text from Ashley and his world shattered. “Martha Starmer’s assignment in California ended early,” he told Ash. “She’s flying in tomorrow evening, and apparently my services are no longer required.” Ashley still planned to pay him in full, however. Like he cared.

Ash responded by standing and, without a word, charging back into the house. The door nearly slammed off its hinges. Millicent, romping in the grass, fled into one of the bushes. Stunned, Paterson waited several seconds before following. To this point, Ash behaved well. This outburst came as a surprise, given that Ash once revealed to Paterson how Martha hated his insipidity.

This reaction, this show of anger, confirmed Ash’s humanity. Martha’s early arrival posed a grave problem.

He found Ash in his former prison room, hunched in an office chair with a ragged cardboard box on his lap. Ash sifted through the box’s contents and looked up when Paterson leaned in the doorway. “Everything in this room,” he said, “belonged to Ash Starmer, except for this box. When Ash was killed, what Martha didn’t give away, she stuffed in here and forgot about it.”

Ash beckoned Paterson closer and showed him all the old framed photographs, the knickknacks, the books. “This is full of stuff that conveyed with the house pretty much since it was built, over a hundred years ago. Ash wanted to keep it. I know that because he posted pictures of this stuff and took to his Facebook about it. Martha wanted to throw it all out, but he got enough likes and comments that he won that argument.” He shook his head. “I can’t tell you why she kept this.”

“Guilt, maybe,” Paterson said. “I told you about Laura’s dog, and how she left him with me. Marvin and I didn’t get on well, but I kept him until he passed. I could have taken him to a shelter.”

“Martha can’t do that with me. I’m like the crap in this box, and when she comes back she’ll lock me away in this room.” Ash’s face was a mask of despair. “We’ll never see each other again.”

“You think I want that, Ash?” Paterson’s voice cracked as he spoke. They’d been so happy the last several weeks. They were healing. “I’d take you back to New Jersey with me in a heartbeat, but you can’t leave this house. I can’t afford to buy it, either, assuming they’d sell it to me.”

Ash let out a mournful sob. Paterson nearly joined him in his misery. It wasn’t fair. He understood the rationale behind limiting an AI’s movements in public, but tethering Ash to a house where its residents kept him in hiding wasn’t exactly healthy.

Paterson contemplated their situation, then touched his hand down on Ash’s shoulder. “It’s not the house keeping you prisoner, or Martha,” he said.

“What?”

Paterson scanned the room, which held a multitude of unused objects and sealed bins. He spotted a tool chest in one corner and found a hammer. Gripping the handle, he beckoned for Ash to follow. “Come with me. I want to see something.”

~*~

Martha Starmer exited the train, feeling jet-lagged and anxious. After two flight layovers and a slow, churning rail ride from Charleston to this point, she wanted nothing more than to collapse in a comfortable bed and sleep away the rest of the week. She required a rideshare to complete her journey, however, and she hoped once she arrived at the cottage that she’d encounter peace and quiet.

Ashley advised her that the man hired to watch the house departed earlier this morning. Far as either of them were aware, this Paterson fellow left Ash’s room locked and untouched. Fine. Martha had no intention of checking up on the AI. She had nothing to say to him; her Ash departed from her life decades ago. He gave her a beautiful daughter as an inadvertent parting gift. She wished for no painful reminders of an interlude she shouldn’t have taken.

“House still standing. Cat still alive. A good sign,” she joked to herself when her hired car pulled into the driveway, prompting the snoozing cat to dash away. She handed a cash tip to the driver and walked the path to the door, where she found an envelope taped at eye level. No address on the front, but inside Martha found a hundred dollars in twenties and a note:

This is just to say

I have broken
the faucet
on the old
clawfoot tub

and given it
to Ash
that he may
come home
with me.

it turns out
he only
needed a
small piece
to stay
functional

forgive me
but I have
no one else
neither did he
now we have
each other.

Chapter Text

Smithsonian National Museum of American History, Washington, DC

“Hold up, please. You weren’t properly scanned.”

William “Techie” Huxley, several steps past the security checkpoint at the museum’s entrance, halted and let his body sag with his heavy sigh. Every. Damn. Night. With this particular guard. “You’re supposed to aim the lasers for my badge,” he said, turning around. Every other employee knew the protocol when dealing with Techie’s ocular implants, which were not recognized by the retinal security scans. 

As though to drive the point home, Techie lifted the plastic card hanging on the lanyard around his neck and waved it at the befuddled guard. “Barcode’s right here, see?” He tapped on the photo ID, which depicted his long red hair falling over his shoulders. He wore a ponytail tonight, not that it should have confused anybody.

“How long have you been working here, and how many times do we have to do this?” Techie hated being the exception to any rule, but it wasn’t like he chose these artificial, bionic eyes. Yet, they served him well, and helped him get this job.

“Sorry,” the guard mumbled. “I have to check everybody. I don’t know that you’re a clone.”

“Right. I’m the ideal model human being for duplication.” Techie was skinny, skittish, and white as milk, with bionic eyes that looked totally black when one faced him head-on. “Right now, some perv with a cryptid fetish is banging a Techie clone at the brothel on 14th street. I’m late for work.”

The guard waved him free, and Techie dashed to his first sub-basement level office, where he would spend the graveyard shift surrounded by monitors. He was fortunate to have this job, as some form of AI occupied most positions in the security field. Techie enjoyed the advantage of  bionic eyes, despite the fact they were installed involuntarily. They allowed him to see long distances, which helped when searching for minute details in security footage.

The Smithsonian, too, hired humans to walk the floors at night. AI worked in some instances here, but when the first robot guard destroyed a priceless artifact from the American Revolution it ended that experiment. It was Techie’s job to help keep the current guards in line.

“Good evening, Techie,” intoned a light, melodic voice as Techie settled in his chair for the night. MLE-1, a non-corporeal artificial intelligence designed by a company specializing in museum security, controlled the computer’s mainframe and the video cameras, and proactively displayed the current status of all the floors. “I hope we have a pleasant, uneventful shift.”

“Hey, Millie,” he said, setting aside his backpack with his lunch and a few print comics to read on during lulls. He preferred them to holographic entertainment; less stress on his vision. “Sounds good to me. Can you show me the rest of the night crew?”

All the monitors flickered momentarily, and soon Techie saw activity on all the floors, public and authorized personnel only, of the museum. Each guard strolled turtle-slow, fingers locked in belt loops and gazes panning across various displays. Rather boring, actually, but it paid well. This particular stop on the Smithsonian tour saw a good share of visitors during the day, but it wasn’t exactly the first choice for a major heist. The Museum of Natural History displayed all the diamonds, but Techie liked it here with all the cool stuff. 

“Looking good. Thanks, Millie.” Techie spoke more to himself than the AI. Switching on the comm system, he sent a message out to all the guards. “Attention all units, the time is now twenty-three hundred hours. This is Techie speaking, welcome to the late show. How about a status report to start us all off? Let’s start from the ground up.”

One by one, each guard buzzed in their position, starting with the one who delayed him at the lobby entrance.

Blue One reporting all clear. Bzzt.

Blue Two reporting all clear. Bzzt.

On it went, until it stopped. Techie pressed his call button again. “Blue Six, report please,” he said, eyes fixed on the proper monitor. Millie’s cameras tracked the new guy–tall, curly blond hair, glasses and an expression of permanent befuddlement–as he paused in front of a display of two android props from an old sci-fi film.

“Blue Six,” Techie tried again. No answer, and he sighed. “Damn it, Matt, that’s you.”

Onscreen, Matt Raider jerked in place and searched his vest for his clip-on radio. “Sorry. Blue Six, reporting all clear. Over.”

“Copy that. Be sure to step aside when the people in the eye masks and striped shirts come tip-toeing down the concourse with the mannequin wearing Jackie Kennedy’s ball gown, alright?”

Bzzt. “What?”

Techie groaned. 

“Matt Raider is unfamiliar with your sense of humor,” Millie said.

“Matt Raider is unfamiliar with breathing through his nose.”

Millie executed a flawless AI laugh. “You have time before the next check-in. I am capable of overseeing the monitors,” she said. “Why not pay him a visit, and orient him? He will likely respond quickly once he is acclimated to your procedures.”

“I guess.” While Techie wasn’t keen on mixing with people, he liked roaming the floors at night, with no crowds blocking the cooler exhibits. He had to enjoy that perk sparingly, however, and focus on protecting everything this building housed. 

However, Matt was fairly new at the job, this being his third night on Techie’s shift, and he was still having trouble with the callsigns. Techie didn’t need to hear the other guards to know they were chuckling to themselves.

“Blue Six, do you copy?” he called out to Matt. 

Bzzt. “Blue Six here.” Better.

“Blue Six, state your position.”

Bzzt. “I’m over by the Galaxy Wars exhibit.”

“Well, stay put. I’m coming up to see you. Copy, Blue Six?”

Silence. Techie thought his bionic eyes might smoke from his frustration.

“MATT!”

Bzzt. “Am I getting fired?”

For the love of… Techie sighed. “No, you’re not getting fired. Just a friendly walk through I do with all new employees.”

“Oh, okay. Yeah, sure.”

~*~

With the escalators turned off for the night, Techie waited for the “fast” elevator to lift him to Matt’s floor. He found the new guard where he’d ordered him to wait, gawking at two chrome-plated besties from a fictional galaxy far, far away. Just as well the droids stood behind glass; Techie imagined Matt getting fingerprints everywhere.

“I was talking to Ronnie the other day,” Matt said as Techie approached, referring to the guard assigned to sub-basement storage. “He said we have all kinds of Galaxy Wars props and costumes, even Darth Vader.”

“We do.”

Matt turned to Techie. They were nearly the same height, and Matt’s whiskey brown eyes softened as they locked gazes. Techie’s enhanced sight showed him deep details on the man’s face, and he dialed back the focus. Not that Matt wasn’t handsome, quite the contrary, but it wouldn’t be professional to stare.

“How come we don’t have the Kylo Ren costume?” Matt pursed his lips, then, “We have nearly every other important prop from the franchise.”

Techie shook his head. “It probably wasn’t offered to the Smithsonian,” he said. “This stuff’s big with private collectors.”

Matt gave his attention back to the droids. “They ought to put everything out.”

“No, it’s better to rotate stuff in and out. Gives people a reason to come back.” Techie waved his hand in front of Matt’s face to break the trance. “Let’s take a walk.” Speaking into his comm, he asked Millie, “Hey, can you switch on the monitors?”

Bzzt. Of course, Techie. In seconds, all of the presentation screens–darkened during closure–illuminated to play sample loops of the programs represented in the exhibits.

Matt seemed reluctant to leave the spot when the clips for Galaxy Wars played, but he followed Techie deeper into the film and TV exhibit space. This particular pavilion covered nearly two centuries of visual entertainment, from the silent era through the first 3-D holodramas considered classics. It was one of Techie’s favorite spots in the museum, popular also with visitors. Techie never considered himself a student of history, however; perhaps if more of this type of culture were taught, he wouldn’t have dropped out of school and fallen into the situation that resulted in his new eyes.

“You have an amazing responsibility here, Matt,” he was saying as they kept to a slow pace, passing glass-walled displays. “Much of what we see here is so old, and brittle. We don’t keep priceless jewels or ancient dinosaur bones, but our museum houses things on which people place the most value.”

“Really?” Matt shone his flashlight on a pair of faded padded chairs from a long-ago television series. “My parents called this place America’s Attic, but it doesn’t seem right. You store junk in attics.”

“Every museum the Smithsonian operates preserves a different aspect of our history,” Techie said, “yet they are all tied together by a common theme.” When Matt didn’t volunteer a guess, he added, “evolution. These are the stories that entertained us in our childhoods and inspired us to shape our adult lives.”

They stopped in front of a monitor running clips of the first “talkies,” and Techie pointed out footage of a documentary. “Do you like old movies, Matt?”

“I liked Galaxy Wars.”

Techie laughed. “Older than that. Classics.” He gestured to the monitor. “Toby Grummett was a B-movie director in the silent era who revolutionized documentary filmmaking. He had this raw, vivid style that inspired nearly everybody in the industry, even the people behind Galaxy Wars.”

Matt grunted in perceived awe, and they moved forward to a case full of film awards. He seemed more impressed by the gold-plated statuettes. “I’ve always wanted to hold one.”

“Yeah?” Techie tapped his comm. “Millie, help us out here?”

Seconds later, a loud click sounded, and the glass partition cracked open. Techie reached for one of the trophies and put it in Matt’s hands. “Be careful with it.”

“Wow.” Matt demonstrated the object’s heft, with one hand palming the base and the other curled around the statue’s body. “Heavier than I imagined,” he said, and read the inscription. “‘Best Song - My Millicent. Basil Anthony, Composer.’ Never heard of him.”

Techie took back the award and replaced it. “That’s what museums are for, so you can learn about these people.”

“Aren’t you worried about getting in trouble for this?” Matt asked. “I mean, the security cameras.”

“Who’s running security tonight, Matt?” Techie winked, knowing it probably looked weird.

Point taken.

From the movie and TV pavilion, they crossed into the music and theater exhibits. “Millie, turn on the projector,” Techie said into his comm, and the space filled with music and the flickers of archival concert and TV footage. The museum currently highlighted clips of mid-twentieth century folk music on one wall. Small benches in front allowed visitors to sit a while and watch performances by Bob Dylan, Al Cody, Llewyn Davis, and Peter, Paul and Mary, among others.

They found more hardware donated by the estate of Basil Anthony, namely a pair of Tony Awards, alongside memorabilia from a play based on Anthony’s life. “This play won a Pultizer,” Techie said, “and once upon a time we had the actual medallion on display. But Charlie Barber’s son bequeathed his father’s professional papers and effects to the New York Public Library. We get loaners on occasion, maybe it’ll come back.”

Matt, however, seemed more interested in a display in the middle of the pavilion. He stared up at the green-robed mannequin encased in glass. “I heard about this guy. A holodoc came out about him not long ago,” he said, reading the placard. “He was rumored to be the John Doe Killer.”

“He was probably more successful at killing than he was at comedy.” Techie meant it as a joke, but maybe not. Dry as his humor was, he didn’t much care for Henry McHenry’s in-your-face style.

They crossed into another wing and Techie guided Matt through the section devoted to technology and finance. “This is cool, a timeline of personal digital assistants.” It amused Techie to find equipment dated from twenty years ago, now considered obsolete. This particular display featured Palm Pilots, iPhones, and the first Blue Book watch. “I read a biography about Blue Book’s founder, Nathan Bateman. He was quite interesting, a bit eccentric,” Techie said. “They said he had a thing for the AI ladies.”

“Are your eyes from Blue Book?”

Techie faced Matt, seeing earnestness in the man’s expression. A simple question, the first instance of such asked by a coworker. “I’m not certain,” he said. “I didn’t receive them voluntarily, and the person responsible wasn’t a paragon of society, so who knows where they came from.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. At least they work.”

Techie left it there. Perhaps when he and Matt got to know each other better, he’d tell the story. “Speaking of AI, you may want to give some proper attention to this wing if you ever work a day shift,” he told Matt. “Last time somebody tried to make trouble here, it was in this section.”

“People try to steal things while the museum’s open?”

They walked past a wall collage dedicated to various civil rights causes. The images depicted activists of all walks of life, marching for their beliefs. “More like defacing property,” Techie said. “Every few years or so, somebody comes in with a can of spray paint trying to make a point.” Back on the comm, he asked Millie to fire up the monitors.

At one display, they paused at a selection of protest signs and photographs from a march on Washington shortly before the country legalized same-sex marriage. Techie laid his fingertips on one placard without reading it. He’d spent so much time in this section, he had them all memorized. This particular sign was posted underneath a photograph of two middle-aged men–the redhead in a pink tank top, the dark-haired one in olive drab–linked arm in arm in the National Mall. The larger of the two, a trans-radial amputee, held a sign reading I SERVED OUR COUNTRY FOR YOUR FREEDOM. GIVE ME MINE TO MARRY THE MAN I LOVE.

“Is it really the same, though?”

No need for Techie to ask for clarification. Matt had walked ahead of him to the display holding photos and artifacts from another march. He joined Matt and watched with him a montage of news reports tracking an important court case.

“I get that some people use AI to sate specific needs and wants,” Matt said, “but I’m not totally sold on AI marriage.”

“He was.” Techie gestured to a picture of the plaintiff of the landmark Paterson vs. New Jersey case. “He built a relationship with an AI and they wanted to marry. I guess my position is, if you’re against AI marriage, don’t marry one.”

Matt laughed at that, then stopped when he noticed Techie hadn’t responded in kind. “Sorry,” he said to Techie. “Your eyes… they don’t technically make you part AI, do they?”

“If you’re asking am I less of a human…” Techie fluttered his eyelids, going for coquettish. “I don’t think so. Would be nice if I could come to work every night without the front guard stopping me to check my identity six or seven times.” 

He looked around the space; they had covered nearly all of Matt’s turf. “Anyway,” Techie said, “I know you’re new here, and I’ll do my best to be patient while you acclimate to the work culture here. I just want everybody I supervise to perform their jobs well.”

“Are you leaving now?”

Techie glanced at the escalator in the middle of their level. He’d use them like stairs to get back to his post. “Well, yeah. I manage all the security monitors. We all have our places. If you need me, though,” he tapped at his own comm, “I’m just a click away.”

“Before you go,” Matt said, moving closer, “can I show you my favorite part of the museum? I mean, you showed me yours. It’s not on this level, though.”

Tricky, but not impossible. Techie looked into Matt’s soft, pleading expression and noted the other man had maybe an inch or two on him. They weren’t quite equal in height, definitely not width, and Matt had an attractive face. The longer Techie looked at him, the more boxes he ticked off in his head.

Not that Techie was actively looking for companionship. His years as an involuntary member of Ma-Ma’s clan in a seedier part of the city spoiled many things for him, romance sadly included.

Eh, what the hell? “Sure,” he said, nodding. 

~*~

After Techie had Millie shut off all the media on Matt’s floor, he asked Mills on fourth to trade with Matt for a bit. Mills was only too happy, and it reminded Techie to switch up the floor assignments to make the job less boring for the night crew. Now Mills could stare at film prop dinosaurs while he and Matt sat in the remnants of a house dating back to the late nineteenth century.

How We Lived was the name of the large exhibit on the fourth level. Different pavilions held cross sections of actual abodes–tiny homes, campers, and recreations of early apartments–decorated to reflect the time periods they represented. Visitors walked through each model yet weren’t allowed past the velvet ropes separating the pathways from the furniture and decor, yet Techie had Millie disable the alarms so he and Matt could sit on the couch inside a cut-off portion of a rural cottage.

“I watched them set up this exhibit,” Matt was saying as they made themselves comfortable. “I grew up in the city, but my Grandma Ashley had a small house just like this. We’d visit in the summer, I’d play with her cat.” He pointed to another section of the home. “She had a clawfoot tub like that, too, but the faucet was busted. Never figured out why she never bothered to get it fixed.”

Techie liked it. The interior held the faint odor of time, multiple occupants leaving their unique residue, and it appeared old and worn down. Nonetheless, compared to the Peach Trees building in his old neighborhood, this was a four-star resort. “I never had a grandmother,” he said. “Well, maybe not true. I never knew my grandparents, or parents. I was in and out of foster homes my whole childhood.”

He adjusted his eyesight to focus on the details of the cottage walls. Techie saw tiny holes in the plaster and wood, indicating photos that once hung. Family portraits, smiling young people in caps and gowns, diplomas. He lowered his lids to let his other senses take over. With Matt quiet a moment, it allowed him to detect scents that survived the museum’s preservation process. Faint smoke, notes of alcohol, cologne. 

When he opened his eyes again, his gaze zeroed in on something blue and thin wedged under the brick base of the fireplace. “What’s that?”

Matt followed with his eyes to where Techie pointed. “Something got stuck,” he said, and reached down to dislodge the object. He handed Techie the shred of colored cardboard bearing the words Ohio and Blue, the rest ripped away.

“Looks like it came from a small box,” Matt said.

Probably. Techie had learned much since coming into this job, and every day seemed to bring a new mystery to solve. Seeing as how they had technically tampered with an exhibit–again–he debated whether or not to return the scrap to its hiding place. “We don’t know if this was part of the house when it was installed, or if one of the workers dropped it,” he told Matt. 

After a minute’s thought, he bent forward and replaced the scrap. Let somebody else discover it. Techie then stood and gestured for Matt to do the same. “Okay, I really need to get back to my post,” he said. “Do you want to finish your shift on this level? Mills won’t mind, I think.”

Matt nodded. “Sure. Techie?”

“Yeah?”

Matt stood with him on the edge of the exhibit. “Maybe some other time, we could do this again? The job gets lonely, and the comms help. The other guards aren’t as outgoing.”

“We can, yeah.” Techie’s pulse quickened when Matt’s arm brushed his. “We have to eat sometime, too. If you want to take our lunch breaks together–”

“I’d like that.” Matt flashed him a crooked grin. “There’s a bench by the Galaxy Wars exhibit,” he said, then looked back at the couch. “Too bad we can’t eat here.”

Yeah. After a few seconds, Techie pulled Matt away, otherwise they’d spend the rest of their shift jawing and not guarding anything. He left Matt to walk his beat and rejoined Millie at his console.

“Techie?”

“Everything okay, Millie?” he asked, checking the monitors. 

Millie paused, then, “Who says you cannot join Matt for breaks in the How We Live cottage?”

Techie slouched back in his chair, glaring at the red lens that served as one of Millie’s many “eyes.” He cursed. “Were you listening in on a private conversation?”

“When one is omnipresent, it is difficult to ignore everything.” Millie sounded rather hurt for an emotionless AI. “Anyway, if you are concerned about security breaches, I have you covered. I do not have a body, but I postulate that the couch in that exhibit is comfortable enough for a lunch break.”

He sighed and, giving it some thought, thanked Millie for what passed as her concern. “Maybe I’ll ask Matt to have lunch there tomorrow,” he said, then proceeded with the next round of guard checks. This time, Matt acknowledged his call immediately. A good sign.

Through the remainder of his shift, Techie focused on work but occasionally drifted toward thoughts of meeting up with Matt again. He liked the idea of sitting next to the young man in that cozy sliver of a living room, surrounded by quaint artifacts of a different time. 

Yes, there was just something about that place.